vJ    w 


MISS  JULIE 


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Irish  Fairy  and  Folk  Tales 
in    Preparation 


Many  volume 5  contain  introdnctiont  by  well-known  modern  A«ttor» 
written  specially  for  the  Modern  LiWary. 


Miss  Julie  and  Other  Plays 

By  AUGUST  STRINDBERG 


BONI   AND   LIVERIGHT,   INC. 


PUBLISHERS 


NEW    YORK 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Miss  JULIE 3 

THE  CREDITOR   .         .         .         .        •«  51 

THE  STRONGER  WOMAN  .  .  ...  »  109 
MOTHERLY  LOVE  .  *  .  .  •  .119 
PARIA  .  .  .  .  -  *39 
SIMOON J59 


2072130 


Miss  JULIE,  aged  twenty-five. 
JOHN,  a  servant,  aged  thirty. 
CHRISTINE,  a  cook,  aged  thirty-five. 


MISS  JULIE 


The  action  of  the  play  takes  place  on  Midsummer 
Night,  in  the  Count's  kitchen. 

CHRISTINE  stands  on  the  left,  by  the  hearth,  and  fries' 
something  in  a  pan.  She  has  on  a  light  blouse  and  a 
kitchen  apron.  JOHN  comes  in  through  the  glass  door  in 
livery.  He  holds  in  his  hand  a  pair  of  big  riding  boots 
with  spurs,  which  he  places  on  the  noor  at  the  back,  in  a 
visible  position. 

John.  Miss  Julie  is  mad  again  to-night — absolutely 
mad! 

Christine.    Oh !  And  so  you're  here,  are  you  ? 

John.  I  accompanied  the  Count  to  the  station,  and 
when  I  passed  the  barn  on  my  way  back  I  went  in  to 
have  a  dance.  At  that  time  Miss  Julie  was  dancing  with 
that  man  Forster.  When  she  noticed  me,  she  made 
straight  for  me  and  asked  me  to  be  her  partner  in  the 
waltz,  and  from  that  moment  she  danced  in  a  way  such 
as  I've  never  seen  anything  of  the  kind  before.  She  is 
simply  crazy. 

Christine.  She's  always  been  that,  but  never  as  much 
as  in  the  last  fortnight,  since  the  engagement  was  broken 
off. 

John.  Yes ;  what  an  affair  that  was,  to  be  sure.  The 
man  was  certainly  a  fine  fellow,  even  though  he  didn't 
have  much  cash.  Well,  to  be  sure,  they  have  so  many 
whims  and  fancies.  [He  sits  down  at  the  right  by  the 
table.]  In  any  case,  it's  strange  that  the  young  lady 
should  prefer  to  stay  at  home  with  the  servants  rather 
than  to  accompany  her  father  to  her  relations',  isn't  it? 

3 


4  MISS   JULIE 

Christine.  Yes.  The  odds  are  that  she  feels  herself  a 
little  embarrassed  after  the  affair  with  her  young  man. 

John.  Maybe;  but  at  any  rate  he  was  a  good  chap. 
Do  you  know,  Christine,  how  it  came  about?  I  saw  the 
whole  show,  though  I  didn't  let  them  see  that  I  noticed 
anything. 

Christine.    What !    You  saw  it  ? 

John.  Yes,  that  I  did.  They  were  one  evening  down 
there  in  the  stable,  and  the  young  lady  was  "training" 
him,  as  she  called  it.  What  do  you  think  she  was  doing? 
She  made  him  jump  over  the  riding  whip  like  a  dog 
which  one  is  teaching  to  hop.  He  jumped  over  twice, 
and  each  time  he  got  a  cut,  but  the  third  time  he  snatched 
her  riding  whip  out  of  her  hand,  smashed  it  into  smith- 
ereens and — cleared  out. 

Christine.    Was  that  it?    No,  you  can't  mean  it? 

John.  Yes,  that  was  how  it  happened.  Can't  you  give 
me  something  nice  to  eat,  now,  Christine? 

Christine.  [Takes  up  the  {ran  and  puts  it  before 
JOHN.]  Well,  there's  only  a  little  bit  of  liver,  which  I've 
cut  off  the  joint. 

John.  [Sniffs  the  food.}  Ah,  very  nice,  that's  my 
special  dish.  [He  feels  the  plate.]  But  you  might  have 
warmed  up  the  plate. 

Christine.  Why,  you're  even  more  particular  than  the 
Count  himself,  once  you  get  going.  [She  draws  her 
fingers  caressingly  through  his  hair.] 

John..  [Wickedly.]  Ugh,  you  mustn't  excite  me  like 
that,  you  know  jolly  well  how  sensitive  I  am. 

Christine.  There,  there  now,  it  was  only  because  I 
love  you. 

John.  [Eats.  CHRISTINE  gets  out  a  bottle  of  beer.] 
Beer  on  Midsummer's  Night!  Not  for  me,  thank  you. 
I  can  go  one  better  than  that  myself.  [He  opens  the  side- 
board and  takes  out  a  bottle  of  red  wine  with  a  yellow 
label.]  Yellow  label,  do  you  see,  dear?  Just  give  me  a 


MISS   JULIE  5 

glass.  A  wineglass,  of  course,  when  a  fellow's  going 
to  drink  neat  wine. 

Christine.  [Turns  again  toward  the  fireplace  and  puts 
a  small  saucepan  on.]  God  pity  the  woman  who  ever 
gets  you  for  a  husband,  a  growler  like  you ! 

John.  Oh,  don't  jaw!  You'd  be  only  too  pleased  if 
you  only  got  a  fellow  like  me,  and  I  don't  think  for  a 
minute  that  you're  in  any  way  put  out  by  my  being 
called  your  best  boy.  [Tastes  the  wine.]  Ah!  very  nice, 
very  nice.  Not  quite  mellowed  enough  though,  that's  the 
only  thing.  [He  warms  the  glass  with  his  hand.]  We 
bought  this  at  Dijon.  It  came  to  four  francs  the  liter, 
without  the  glass,  and  then  there  was  the  duty  as  well. 
What  are  you  cooking  there  now?  It  makes  the  most 
infernal  stink? 

Christine.  Oh,  that's  just  some  assafoetida,  which  Miss 
Julie  wants  to  have  for  Diana. 

John.  You  ought  to  express  yourself  a  little  more 
prettily,  Christine.  Why  have  you  got  to  get  up  on  a 
holiday  evening  and  cook  for  the  brute?  Is  it  ill,  eh? 

Christine.  Yes,  it  is.  It  slunk  out  to  the  dog  in  the 
courtyard,  and  there  it  played  the  fool,  and  the  young 
lady  doesn't  want  to  know  anything  about  it,  do  you  see  ? 

John.  Yes,  in  one  respect  the  young  lady  is  too  proud, 
and  in  another  not  proud  enough.  Just  like  the  Countess 
was  when  she  was  alive.  She  felt  most  at  home  in  the 
kitchen,  and  in  the  stable,  but  she  would  never  ride  a 
horse;  she'd  go  about  with  dirty  cuffs,  but  insisted  on 
having  the  Count's  coronet  on  the  buttons.  The  young 
lady,  so  far  now  as  she  is.  concerned,  doesn't  take  enough 
trouble  about  either  herself  or  her  person ;  in  a  manner 
of  speaking  she  is  not  refined.  Why,  only  just  now, 
when  she  was  dancing  in  the  barn,  she  snatched  Forster 
away  from  Anna,  and  asked  him  to  dance  with  herself. 
We  wouldn't  behave  like  that ;  but  that's  what  happens 
when  the  gentry  make  themselves  cheap.  Then  they  are 


6  MISS   JULIE 

cheap,  and  no  mistake  about  it.  But  she  is  real  stately! 
Superb !  Whew !  What  shoulders,  what  a  bust  and 

Christine.  Ye-e-s ;  but  she  makes  up  a  good  bit,  too. 
I  know  what  Clara  says,  who  helps  her  to  dress. 

John.  Oh,  Clara!  You  women  are  always  envious  of 
each  other.  I've  been  out  with  her  and  seen  her  ride, 
and  then  how  she  dances ! 

Christine.  I  say,  John,  won't  you  dance  with  me  when 
I'm  ready? 

John.    Of  course  I  will. 

Christine.     Promise  me? 

John.  Promise?  If  I  say  I'll  do  a  thing,  then  I  al- 
ways do  it.  Anyway,  thanks  very  much  for  the  food, 
it  was  damned  good.  [He  puts  the  cork  back  into' the 
bottle.  The  young  lady,  at  the  glass  door,  speaks  to 
people  outside.]  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute.  [He  conceals 
the  bottle  of  wine  in  a  napkin,  and  stands  up  respectfully.] 

Julie.  [Enters  and  goes  to  CHRISTINE  by  the  fire- 
place.} Well,  is  it  ready? 

Christine.  [Intimates  to  her  by  signs  that  JOHN  is 
present.] 

John.     [Gallantly.]    Do  the  ladies  want  to  talk  secrets  ? 

Julie.  [Strikes  hint  in  the  face  with  her  handker- 
chief.] Is  he  inquisitive? 

John.    Ah!  what  a  nice  smell  of  violets. 

Julie.  [Coquettishly.]  Impudent  person!  Is  the  fel- 
low then  an  expert  in  perfumes?  [She  goes  behind  the 
table.] 

John.  [With  gentle  affectation.]  Have  you  ladies 
then  been  brewing  a  magic  potion  this  Midsummer  Night  ? 
Something  so  as  to  be  able  to  read  one's  fortunes  in  the 
stars,  so  that  you  get  a  sight  of  the  future  ? 

Julie.  [Sharply.]  Yes,  if  he  manages  to  see  that,  he 
must  have  very  good  eyes.  [To  CHRISTINE.]  Pour  it 
into  a  half  bottle  and  cork  it  securely.  Let  the  man  come 


MISS   JULIE  7 

now  and  dance  the  schottische  with  me.  John?  [She 
lets  her  handkerchief  fall  an  the  tafrle.] 

John.  [Hesitating.]  I  don't  want  to  be  disobliging 
to  anybody,  but  I  promised  Christine  this  dance. 

Jidie.  Oh,  well,  she  can  get  somebody  else.  [She  goes 
to  CHRISTINE.]  What  do  you-  say,  Christine?  Won't 
you  lend  me  John? 

Christine.  I  haven't  got  any  say  in  the  matter.  If  you 
are  so  condescending,  Miss,  it  wouldn't  at  all  do  for  him 
to  refuse.  You  just  go  and  be  grateful  for  such  an 
honor. 

John.  Speaking  frankly,  and  without  meaning  any 
offence,  do  you  think  it's  quite  wise,  Miss  Julie,  to  dance 
twice  in  succession  with  the  same  gentleman,  particularly 
as  the  people  here  are  only  too  ready  to  draw  all  kinds 
of  conclusions  ? 

Julie.  [Explodes.]  What  da  you  mean?  What  con- 
clusion? What  does  the  man  mean? 

John..  [Evasively.]  As  you  won't  understand  me, 
Miss,  I  must  express  myself  more  clearly.  It  doesn't 
look  well  to  prefer  one  of  your  inferiors  to  others  who 
expect  the  same  exceptional  honor. 

Julie.  Prefer?  What  idea  is  the  man  getting  into  his 
head?  I  am  absolutely  astonished.  I,  the  mistress  of 
the  house,  honor  my  servants'  dance  with  my  presence, 
and  if  I  actually  want  to  dance  I  want  to  do  it  with  a 
man  who  can  steer,  so  that  I  haven't  got  the  bore  of 
being  laughed  at. 

John.    I  await  your  orders,  miss ;  I  am  at  your  service. 

Julie.  [Softly.]  Don't  talk  now  of  orders  ;  this  even- 
ing we're  simply  merry  men  and  women  at  a  revel,  and 
we  lay  aside  all  rank.  Give  me  your  arm ;  don't  be  un- 
easy, Christine,  I'm  not  going  to  entice  your  treasure 
away  from  you. 

[JOHN  offers  her  his  arm  and  leads  her  through  the 
glass  door.  CHRISTINE  alone.  Faint  violin  music  at  some 


8  MISS   JULIE 

distance  to  schottische  time.  CHRISTINE  keeps  time  with 
the  music,  clears  the  table  where  JOHN  had  been  eating, 
washes  the  plate  at  the  side-table,  dries  it  and  puts  it 
in  the  cupboard.  She  then  takes  off  her  kitchen  apron, 
takes  a  small  mirror  out  of  the  table  drawer,  puts  it  oppo- 
site the  basket  of  lilacs,  lights  a  taper,  heats  a  hairpin, 
with  which  she  curls  her  front  hair;  then  she  goes  to  the 
glass  door  and  washes,  comes  back  to  the  table,  finds  the 
young  lady's  handkerchief,  which  she  has  forgotten,  takes 
it  and  smells  it;  she  then  pensively  spreads  it  out,  stretches 
it  fiat'  and  folds  it  in  four.  JOHN  comes  back  alone 
through  the  glass  door.] 

John.  Yes,  she  is  mad,  to  dance  like  that ;  and  every- 
body stands  by  the  door  and  grins  at  her.  What  do  you 
say  about  it,  Christine  ? 

Christine.  Ah,  it's  just  her  time,  and  then  she  always 
takes  on  so  strange.  But  won't  you  come  now  and  dance 
with  me? 

John.  .You  aren't  offended  with  me  that  I  cut  your 
last  dance? 

Christine.  No,  not  the  least  bit ;  you  know  that  well 
enough,  and  I  know  my  place  besides. 

John.  [Puts  his  hand,  round  her  waist.]  You're  a 
sensible  girl,  Christine,  and  you'd  make  an  excellent 
housekeeper. 

Julie.  [Comes  in  through  the  glass  door.  She  is  dis- 
agreeably surprised.  W'ith  forced  humor.']  Charming 
cavalier  you  are,  to  be  sure,  to  run  away  from  your 
partner. 

John.  On  the  contrary,  Miss  Julie,  I've  been  hurrying 
all  I  know,  as  you  see,  to  find  the  girl  I  left  behind  me. 

Julie.  Do  you  know,  none  of  the  others  dance  like 
you  do.  But  why  do  you  go  about  in  livery  on  a  holiday 
evening?  Take  it  off  at  once. 

John.  In  that  case,  miss,  I  must  ask  you  to  leave  me 
for  a  moment,  because  my  black  coat  hangs  up  here.  [He 


MISS   JULIE  9 

goes  with  a  corresponding  gesture  toward  the  right.} 

Jidie.  Is  he  bashful  on  my  account?  Just  about 
changing"  a  coat !  Is  he  going  into  his  room  and  coming 
back  again?  So  far  as  I  am  concerned  he  can  stay 
here ;  I'll  turn  round. 

John.  By  your  leave,  miss.  [He  goes  to  the  left,  his 
arm  is  visible  when  he  changes  his  coat.} 

Julie.  [To  CHRISTINE.]  I  say,  Christine,  is  John  your 
sweetheart,  that  he's  so  thick  with  you  ? 

Christine.  [Going,  t'oward  the  fireplace.}  My  sweet- 
heart? Yes,  if  you  like.  We  call  it  that. 

Jidie.    Call  it? 

Christine.  Well,  you  yourself,  Miss,  had  a  sweetheart 
and 

Julie.    Yes,  we  were  properly  engaged. 

Christine.  But  nothing  at  all  came  of  it.  [She  sits 
down-  and  gradually  goes  to  sleep.} 

John.     [In  a  black  coat  and  with  a  black  hat.} 

Julie.     Tres  gentil,  Monsieur  Jean ;  tres  gentil ! 

John.     Vous  voulez  plaisanter,  madame! 

Julie.  Et  vous  voulez  parler  f  rangais  ?  And  where  did 
you  pick  that  up? 

John.  In  Switzerland,  when  I  was  a  waiter  in  one  of 
the  best  hotels  in  Lucerne. 

Julie.  But  you  look  quite  like  a  gentleman  in  that 
coat.  Charming.  [She  sits  down  on  the  right,  by  the 
table.] 

John.    Ah !  you're  flattering  me. 

Julie.     [O  if  ended.]    Flatter?    You? 

John.  My  natural  modesty  won't  allow  me  to  imagine 
that  you're  paying  true  compliments  to  a  man  like  me, 
so  I  took  the  liberty  of  supposing  that  you're  exagger- 
ating or,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  flattering. 

Julie.  Where  did  you  learn  to  string  your  words  to- 
gether like  that?  You  must  have  been  to  the  theater 
a  great  deal? 


io  MISS   JULIE 

John.    Quite  right.    I've  been  to  no  end  of  places. 

Julie.     But  you  were  born  here  in  this  neighborhood. 

John.  My  father  was  odd  man  to  the  State  attorney 
of  this  parish,  and  I  saw  you,  Miss,  when  you  were  a 
child,  although  you  didn't  notice  me. 

Julie.     Really  ? 

John.  Yes,  and  I  remember  one  incident  in  particular. 
Um,  yes — I  mustn't  speak  about  that. 

Julie.  Oh,  yes — you  tell  me.  What?  Just  to  please 
me. 

John.  No,  really  I  can't  now.  Perhaps  some  other 
time. 

Julie.  Some  other  time  means  never.  Come,  is  it 
then  so  dangerous  to  tell  me  now? 

John.  It's  not  dangerous,  but  it's  much  best  to  leave 
it  alone.  Just  look  at  her  over  there.  [He  points  to 
CHRISTINE,  who  has  gone  to  sleep  in  a  chair  by  the  fire- 
place.] % 

Julie.  She'll  make  a  cheerful  wife.  Perhaps  she 
snores  as  well. 

John.     She  doesn't  do  that — she  speaks  in  her  sleep. 

Julie.    How  do  you  know  that  she  speaks  in  her  sleep? 

John.  I've  heard  it.  [Pause — in  which  they  look  at 
each  other.] 

Julie.     Why  don't  you  sit  down  ? 

John.     I  shouldn't  take  such  a  liberty  in  your  presence. 

Julie.     And  if  I  ofder  you  to 

John.     Then  I  obey. 

Julie.  Sit  down ;  but,  wait  a-  moment,  can't  you  give 
me  something  to  drink? 

John.  I  don't  know  what's  in  the  refrigerator.  I 
don't  think  there's  anything  except  beer. 

Julie.  That's  not  to  be  sniffed  at.  Personally  I'm  so 
simple  in  my  tastes  that  I  prefer  it  to  wine. 

John.  [Takes  a  bottle  out  of  the  refrigerator  and 
draws  the  cork;  he  looks  in  the  cupboard  for  a  glass  and 


MISS   JULIE  ii 

plate,  on  which  he  serves  the  beer.]  May  I  offer  you 
some? 

Julie.     Thanks.    Won't  you  have  some  as  well? 

John.  I'm  not  what  you  might  call  keen  on  beer,  but 
if  you  order  me,  Miss 

Julie.  Order?  It  seems  to  me  that  as  a  courteous 
cavalier  you  might  keep  your  partner  company. 

John.  A  very  sound  observation.  [He  opens  another 
bottle  and  takes  a  glass.] 

Julie.  Drink  my  health !  [ JOHN  hesitates.]  I  believe 
the  old  duffer  is  bashful. 

John.  [On  his  knees,  mock  heroically,  lifts  up  his 
glass.]  The  health  of  my  mistress! 

Julie.  Bravo!  Now,  as  a  finishing  touch,  you  must 
kiss  my  shoe.  [JOHN  hesitates,  then  catches  sharply  hold 
of  her  foot  and  kisses  it  lightly.]  First  rate!  You 
should  have  gone  on  the  stage. 

John.  [Gets  up.]  This  kind  of  thing  mustn't  go  any 
further,  Miss.  Anybody  might  come  in  and  see  us. 

Julie.     What  would  it  matter? 

John.  People  would  talk,  and  make  no  bones  about 
what  they  said  either,  and  if  you  knew,  Miss,  how  their 
tongues  have  already  been  wagging,  then 

Julie.     What  did  they  say  then  ?    Tell  me,  but  sit  down. 

John.  [Sits  down.]  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you,  but 
you  made  use  of  expressions — which  pointed  to  innu- 
endoes of  such  a  kind — yes,  you'll  understand  this  per- 
fectly well  yourself.  You're  not  a  child  any  more,  and, 
if  a  lady  is  seen  to  drink  alone  with  a  man — even  if  it's 
only  a  servant,  tete-a-tete  at  night — then 

Julie.  What  then?  And,  besides,  we're  not  alone: 
Christine  is  here. 

John.     Yes,  asleep. 

Julie.  Then  I'll  wake  her  up.  [She  gets  up.]  Christ 
tine,  are  you  asleep? 

Christine.     [In  her  sleep.]     Bla — bla — bla — bla. 


12  MISS  JULIE 

Julie.     Christine!     The  woman  can  go  on  sleeping. 

Christine.  [In  her  sleep.}  The  Count's  boots  are  al- 
ready done — put  the  coffee  out — at  once,  at  once,  at  once 
— oh,  oh — ah  ! 

Julie.  [Takes  hold  of  her  by  the  nose.]  Wake  up, 
will  you? 

John.  [Harshly.]  You  mustn't  disturb  a  person 
who's  asleep. 

Julie.     [Sharply.]    What? 

John.  A  person  who's  been  on  her  legs  all  day  by  the 
fireplace  will  naturally  be  tired  when  night  comes;  and 
sleep  should  be  respected. 

Julie.  [In  another  tone.]  That's  a  pretty  thought. 
and  does  you  credit — thank  you.  [She  holds  her  hand 
out  to  JOHN.]  Come  out  now  and  pick  some  clover  for 
me.  [During  the  subsequent  dialogue  CHRISTINE  wakes 
up,  and  exit  in  a  dosed  condition  to  the  right,  to  go  to 
bed.] 

John.     With  you,  Miss? 

Julie.     With  me? 

John.     It's  impossible,  absolutely  impossible. 

Julie.  I  don't  understand  what  you  mean.  Can  it  be 
possible  that  you  imagine  such  a  thing  for  a  single 
minute. 

John.     Me — no,  but  the  people — yes. 

Julie.  What!  That  I  should  be  in  love  with  a  ser- 
vant? 

John.  I'm  not  by  any  means  an  educated  man,  but 
there  have  been  cases,  and  nothing  is  sacred  to  the 
people. 

Julie.    I  do  believe  the  man  is  an  aristocrat. 

John.     Yes;  that  I  am. 

Julie.    And  I'm  on  the  down  path. 

John.  Don't  go  down,  Miss.  Take  my  advice,  nobody 
will  believe  that  you  went  down  of  your  own  free  will. 
People  will  always  say  you  fell. 


MISS   JULIE  13 

Julie.  I  have  a  better  opinion  of  people  than  you  have. 
Come  and  try.  Come.  [She  challenges  him  with  her 
eyes.] 

John.     You  are  strange,  you  know. 

Julie.  Perhaps  I  am,  but  so  are  you.  Besides,  every- 
thing is  strange.  Life,  men,  the  whole  thing  is  simply 
an  iceberg  which  is  driven  out  on  the  water  until  it  sinks 
— sinks.  I  have  a  dream  which  comes  up  now  and  again, 
and  now  it  haunts  me.  I  am  sitting  on  the  top  of  a 
high  pillar  and  can't  see  any  possibility  of  getting  down ; 
I  feel  dizzy  when  I  look  down,  but  I  have  to  get  down 
all  the  same.  I  haven't  got  the  pluck  to  throw  myself 
off.  I  can't  keep  my  balance  and  I  want  to  fall  over, 
but  I  don't  fall.  And  I  don't  get  a  moment's  peace 
until  I'm  down  below.  No  rest  until  I've  got  to  the 
ground,  and  when  I've  got  down  to  the  ground  I  want 
to  get  right  into  the  earth.  Have  you  ever  felt  any- 
thing like  that? 

John.  No;  I  usually  dream  I'm  lying  under  a  high 
tree  in  a  gloomy  forest.  I  want  to  get  up  right  to  the 
top  and  look  round  at  the  light  landscape  where  the  sun 
shines,  and  plunder  the  birds'  nests  where  the  golden  eggs 
lie,  and  I  climb  and  climb,  but  the  trunk  is  so  thick 
and  so  smooth,  and  it's  such  a  long  way  to  the  first 
branch ;  but  I  know,  if  only  I  can  get  to  the  first  branch, 
I  can  climb  to  the  top,  as  though  it  were  a  ladder.  I 
haven't  got  there  yet,  but  I  must  get  there,  even  though 
it  were  only  in  my  dreams. 

Julie.  And  here  I  am  now  standing  chattering  to  you. 
Come  along  now,  just  out  into  the  park.  [She  offers 
him  her  arm  and  they  go.] 

John.  We  must  sleep  to-night  on  nine  Midsummer 
Night  herbs,  then  our  dreams  will  come  true.  [Both 
turn  round  in  the  doorway.  JOHN  holds  his  hand  be- 
fore one  of  his  eyes.] 

Julie.    Let  me  see  what's  got  Into  your  eye. 


14  MISS   JULIE 

John.  Oh,  nothing,  only  a  bit  of  dust — it'll  be  all 
right  in  a  minute. 

Julie.  It  was  the  sleeve  of  my  dress  that  grazed  you. 
Just  sit  down  and  I'll  help  you  get  it  out.  [She  takes 
him  by  the  arm  and  makes  him  sit  down  on  the  table. 
She  then  takes  his  head  and  presses  it  down,  and  tries  to 
get  the  dust  out  with  the  corner  of  her  handkerchief.] 
Be  quite  still,  quite  still !  [She  strikes  him  on  the  hand.] 
There!  Will  he  be  obedient  now?  I  do  believe  the 
great  strong  man's  trembling.  [She  feels  his  arm.]  With 
arms  like  that! 

John.     [Warningly.]     Miss  Julie 

Julie.    Yes,  Monsieur  Jean. 

John.    Attention!    Je  ne  suis  qu'un  homme! 

Julie.  Won't  he  sit  still?  See!  It's  out  now!  Let 
him  kiss  my  hand  and  thank  me. 

John.  [Stands  up.]  Miss  Julie,  listen  to  me.  Chris- 
tine has  cleared  out  and  gone  to  bed.  Won't  you  listen 
to  me? 

Julie.     Kiss  my  hand  first. 

John.     Listen  to  me. 

Julie.     Kiss  my  hand  first. 

John.  All  right,  but  you  must  be  responsible  for  the 
consequences. 

Julie.    What  consequences? 

John.  What  consequences  ?  Don't  you  know  it's  dan- 
gerous to  play  with  fire? 

Julie.    Not  for  me.    I  am  insured! 

John.  [Sharply.]  No,  you're  not!  And  even  if  you 
were  there's  inflammable  material  pretty  close. 

Julie.    Do  you  mean  yourself? 

John.  Yes.  Not  that  I'm  particularly  dangerous,  but 
I'm  just  a  young  man ! 

Julie.  With  an  excellent  appearance — what  incredible 
vanity !  Don  Juan,  I  suppose,  or  a  Joseph.  I  believe,  on 
my  honor,  the  man's  a  Joseph ! 


MISS   JULIE  15 

John.    Do  you  believe  that? 

Julie.  I  almost  fear  it.  [JOHN  goes  brutally  toward 
and  tries  to  embrace  her,  so  as  to  kiss  her.  JULIE  boxes 
his  ears.]  Hands  off. 

John.    Are  you  serious  or  joking? 

Julie.     Serious. 

John.  In  that  case,  what  took  place  before  was  also 
serious.  You're  taking  the  game  much  too  seriously,  and 
and  that's  dangerous.  But  I'm  tired  of  the  game  now, 
so  would  you  please  excuse  me  so  that  I  can  go  back 
to  my  work  ?  [He  goes  to  the  back  of  the  stage,  to  the 
boots.]  The  Count  must  have  his  boots  early,  and  mid- 
night is  long  past.  [He  takes  up  the  boots.] 

Julie.     Leave  the  boots  alone. 

John.  No.  It's  my  duty,  and  I'm  bound  to  do  it,  but 
I  didn't  take  on  the  job  of  being  your  playmate.  Be- 
sides, the  thing  is  out  of  the  question,  as  I  consider 
myself  much  too  good  for  that  kind  of  thing. 

Julie.    You're  proud. 

John.     In  some  cases,  not  in  others. 

Julie.    Have  you  ever  loved? 

John.  We  people  don't  use  that  word.  But  I've  liked 
many  girls,  and  once  it  made  me  quite  ill  not  to  be  able 
to  get  the  girl  I  wanted,  as  ill,  mind  you,  as  the  princes 
in  "The  Arabian  Nights,"  who  are  unable  to  eat  or  drink 
out  of  pure  love.  [He  takes  up  the  boots  again.] 

Julie.     Who  was  it?    [JOHN  is  silent.] 

John.    You  can't  compel  me  to  tell  you. 

Julie.  If  I  ask  you  as  an  equal,  as — a  friend?  Who 
was  it? 

John.    You ! 

Julie.     [Sits  down.]     How  funny! 

John.  And  if  you  want  to  hear  the  story,  here  goes ! 
It  was  humorous.  This  is  the  tale,  mind  you,  which  I 
would  not  tell  you  before,  but  I'll  tell  you  right  enough 
now.  Do  you  know  how  the  world  looks  from  down 
below  ?  No,  of  course  you  don't.  Like  hawks  and  eagles, 


16  .  MISS   JULIE 

whose  backs  a  man  can  scarcely  ever  see  because  they're 
always  flying  in  the  air.  I  grew  up  in  my  father's  hovel 
along  with  seven  sisters  and — a  pig — out  there  on  the 
bare  gray  field,  where  there  wasn't  a  single  tree  grow- 
ing, and  I  could  look  out  from  the  window  on  to  the 
walls  of  the  Count's  parks,  with  its  apple-trees.  That 
was  my  Garden  of  Eden,  and  many  angels  stood  there 
with  a  flaming  sword  and  guarded  it,  but  all  the  same 
I,  and  other  boys,  found  my  way  to  the  Tree  of  Life — 
do  you  despise  me? 

Julie.    Oh,  well — stealing  apples?    All  boys  do  that. 

John.  That's  what  you  say,  but  you  despise  me  all  the 
same.  Well,  what's  the  odds!  Once  I  went  with  my 
mother  inside  the  garden,  to  weed  out  the  onion  bed. 
Close  by  the  garden  wall  there  stood  a  Turkish  pavilion, 
shaded  by  jasmine  and  surrounded  by  wild  roses.  I  had 
no  idea  what  it  was  used  for,  but  I'd  never  seen  so 
fine  a  building.  People  went  in  and  out,  and  one  day 
the  door  stood  open.  I  sneaked  in,  and  saw  the  walls 
covered  with  pictures  of  queens  and  emperors,  and  red 
curtains  with  fringes  were  in  front  of  the  windows — 

now  you  know  what  I  mean.  I [He  takes  a  lilac 

branch  and  holds  it  under  the  young  lady's  nose.}  I'd 
never  been  in  the  Abbey,  and  I'd  never  seen  anything  else 
but  the  church — but  this  was  much  finer,  and  wherever 
my  thoughts  roamed  they  always  came  back  again  to  it, 
and  then  little  by  little  the  desire  sprang  up  in  me  to 
get  to  know,  some  time,  all  this  magnificence.  En-fin, 
I  sneaked  in,  saw  and  wondered,  but  then  somebody 
came.  There  was,  of  course,  only  one  way  out  for  the 
gentry,  but  I  found  another  one,  and,  again,  I  had  no 
choice.  [JULIE,  who  has  taken  up  the  Wac  branch,  lets 
it  fall  on  the  table.]  So  I  flew,  and  rushed  through  a 
lilac  bush,  clambered  over  a  garden  bed  and  came  out 
by  a  terrace  of  roses.  I  there  saw  a  light  dress  and  a 
pair  of  white  stockings — that  was  you.  I  laid  down 
under  a  heap  of  herbage,  right  under  them.  Can  you 


MISS   JULIE  17 

imagine  it? — under  thistles  which  stung  me  and  wet 
earth  which  stank,  and  I  looked  at  you  where  you  came 
between  the  roses,  and  I  thought  if  it  is  true  that  a  mur- 
derer can  get  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  and  remain 
among  the  angels,  it  is  strange  if  here,  on  God's  own 
earth,  a  poor  lad  like  me  can't  get  into  the  Abbey  park 
and  play  with  the  Count's  daughter. 

Julie.  [Sentimentally.]  Don't  you  think  that  all  poor 
children  under  similar  circumstances  have  had  the  same 
thoughts  ? 

John.  [At  first  hesitating,  then  in  a  tone  of  convic- 
tion.] That  all  poor  children — yes— of  course.  Cer- 
tainly. 

Julie.    Being  poor  must  be  an  infinite  misfortune. 

John.  [With  deep  pain.]  Oh,  Miss  Julie.  Oh!  A 
dog  can  lie  on  the  Count's  sofa,  a  horse  can  be  petted  by 
a  lady's  hand,  on  its  muzzle,  but  a  boy !  [  With  a  change 
of  tone.]  Yes,  yes;  a  man  of  individuality  here  and 
there  may  have  enough  stuff  in  him  to  come  to  the  top, 
but  how  often  is  that  the  case?  What  do  you  think  I 
did  then? — I  jumped  into  the  mill-stream,  clothes  and 
all,  but  was  fished  out  and  given  a  thrashing.  But  the 
next  Sunday,  when  father  and  all  of  the  people  at  home 
went  to  grandmother's,  I  managed  to  work  it  that  I 
stayed  at  home,  and  I  then  had  a  wash  with  soap  and 
warm  water,  put  on  my  Sunday  clothes  and  went  to 
church,  where  I  could  get  a  sight  of  you.  I  saw  you  and 
went  home  determined  to  die,  but  I  wanted  to  die  in  a 
fine  and  agreeable  way,  without  pain,  and  I  then  got  the 
idea  that  it  was  dangerous  to  sleep  under  a  lilac  bush. 
We  had  one  which  at  that  time  was  in  full  bloom.  I 
picked  all  the  blooms  which  it  had  and  then  lay  down 
in  the  oat  bin.  Have  you  ever  noticed  how  smooth  the 
oats  are?  As  soft  to  the  hand  as  human  skin.  I  then 
shut  the  lid,  and  at  last  went  to  sleep  and  woke  up  really 
very  ill ;  but  I  didn't  die,  as  you  see.  I  don't  know  what 
I  really  wanted ;  there  was  no  earthly  possibility  of  win- 


18  MISS   JULIE 

ning  you.  But  you  were  a  proof  for  me  of  the  utter 
hopelessness  of  escaping  from  the  circle  in  which  I'd 
been  born. 

Julie.  You  tell  a  story  charmingly,  don't  you  knew. 
Have  you  been  to  school? 

John.  A  little,  but  I've  read  a  lot  of  novels,  and  been 
a  lot  to  the  theater.  Besides,  I've  heard  refined  people 
talk,  and  I've  learned  most  from  them. 

Julie.    Do  you  listen,  then,  to  what  we  say? 

John.  Yes,  that's  right ;  and  I've  picked  up  a  great  deal 
when  I've  sat  on  the  coachman's  box  or  been  rowing  the 
boat.  I  once  heard  you,  Miss,  and  a  young  lady  friend 
of  yours. 

Julie.    Really  ?    What  did  you  hear  then  ? 

John.  Well,  that  I  can't  tell  you,  but  I  was  really 
somewhat  surprised,  and  I  couldn't  understand  where 
you'd  learned  all  the  words  from.  Perhaps  at  bottom 
there  isn't  so  great  a  difference  between  class  and  class 
as  one  thinks. 

Julie.  Oh,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself !  We 
are  not  like  you  are,  and  we  have  someone  whom  we 
love  best. 

John.  [Fixes  her  with  his  eyes.]  Are  you  so  sure  of 
that  ?  You  needn't  make  yourself  out  so  innocent,  Miss, 
on  my  account. 

Julie.  The  man  to  whom  I  gave  my  love  was  a  scoun- 
drel. 

John.     Girls  always  say  that — afterward. 

Julie.    Always  ? 

John.  Always,  I  think.  I've  certainly  already  heard 
the  phrase  on  several  previous  occasions,  in  similar  cir- 
cumstances. 

Julie.     What  circumstances? 

John.     The  last  time 

Julie.     Stop !    I  won't  hear  any  more. 

John.  She  wouldn't  either — it's  remarkable.  Oh,  well, 
will  you  excuse  me  if  I  go  to  bed? 


MISS   JULIE  19 

Julie.     [Tartly.]     Go  to  bed  on  Midsummer  Night? 

John.  Yes.  Dance  out  there  with  the  riff-raff,  that 
doesn't  amuse  me  the  least  bit. 

Julie.  Take  the  key  of  the  boathouse  and  row  me  out 
on  the  lake.  I  want  to-  see  the  sun  rise. 

John.     Is  that  sensible? 

Julie.  It  seems  you're  concerned  about  your  reputa- 
tion. 

John.  Why  not  ?  I'm"  not  keen  on  making  myself  look 
ridiculous,  nor  on  being  kicked  out  without  a  reference, 
if  I  want  to  set  up  on  my  own,  and  it  seems  to  me  I 
have  certain  obligations  to  Christine. 

Julie.     Oh,  indeed!     So  it's  Christine  again? 

John.  Yes ;  but  it's  on  your  account  as  well.  Take 
my  advice  and*  go-  up  and  go*  to  bed. 

Julie.     Shall  I  obey  you  ? 

John.  This  once  for  your  own  sake,  I  ask  you ;  it's 
late  at  night,  sleepiness  makes  one  dazed,  and  one's  blood 
boils.  You  go  and  lie  down.  Besides,  if  I  can  believe 
my  ears,  people  are  coming  to  find  me,  and  if  we  are 
found  here  you  are  lost.  [Chorus  is  heard  in  the  distance 
and  gets  nearer.} 

"She  pleases  me  like  one  o'clock, 

My  pretty  young  lidee, 
For  thoughts  of  her  my  bosom  block, 

Her  servant  must  I  be, 
For  she  delights  my  heart, 

Tiritidi— ralla,  tiritidi— ra ! 

"And  now  I've  won  the  match, 
For  which  I've  long  been  trying, 
The  other  swains  go  flying, 
But  she  comes  up  to  scratch, 
My  pretty  young  lidee, 
Tiritidi — ralla — la — la  !" 

Julie.  I  know  our  people,  and  I  like  them — just  in  the 
same  way  that  they  like  me.  Just  let  them  come,  then 
you'll  see. 


20  MISS   JULIE 

John.  No,  Miss  Julie.  The  folks  don't  love  you. 
They  eat  your  bread,  but  they  make  fun  of  you  behind 
your  back.  You  take  it  from  me.  Listen,  just  listen,  to 
what  they're  singing.  No,  you'd  better  not  listen. 

Julie.     [Listens.]     What  are  they  singing? 

John.    It's  some  nasty  lines  about  you  and  me. 

Julie.     Horrible !    Ugh,  what  sneaks  they  are ! 

John.  The  riff-raff  is  always  cowardly,  and  in  the 
fight  it's  best  to  fly. 

Julie.  Fly?  But  where  to?  We  can't  go  out,  and 
we  can't  go  up  to  Christine's  room  either. 

John.  Then  come  into  my  room.  Necessity  knows  no 
law,  and  you  can  rely  on  my  being  your  real,  sincere  and 
respectful  friend. 

Julie.     But  just  think,  would  they  look  for  you  there  ? 

John.  I'll  bolt  the  door,  and  if  they  try  to  break  it  in 
I'll  shoot.  Come.  [On  his  knees.]  Come! 

Julie.     [Significantly.]     Promise  me. 

John.    On  my  oath! 

[JULIE  rushes  off  on  the  left.  JOHN  follows  her  in 
a  state  of  excitement.  Pantomime.  Wedding  party  in 
holiday  clothes,  with  flowers  round  their  hats  and  a  z>iolin 
player  at  their  head,  come  in  through  the  glass  door. 
Barrel  of  small  beer  and  a  keg  of  br-andy  wreathed  with 
laurel  are  placed  on  the  table.  They  take  up  glasses,  they 
then  drink,  they  then  make  &  ring  and  a  dance  is  sung 
and  executed.  Then  they  go  out,  singing  again,  through 
the  glass  door.  JULIE  comes  w  done  -from  the  left,  ob- 
serves the  disorder  in  the  kitchen  and  claps  her  hands; 
she  then  takes  out  a  powder  puff  and  powders  her  face. 
JOHN  follows  after  the  young  woman  from  the  left,  in 
a  state  of  exaltation.] 

John.  There,  do  you  see,  you've  seen  it  for  yourself 
now.  You  think  it  possible  to  go  on  staying  here  ? 

Julie.     No,  I  don't  any  more.    But  what's  to  be  done? 

John.    Run  away — travel,  far  away  from  here. 

Julie.    Travel?    Yes,  but  where? 


MISS   JULIE  21 

John.  Sweden — the  Italian  lakes,  you've  never  been 
there,  have  you  ? 

Julie.     No ;  is  it  nice  there  ? 

John.  Oh !  A  perpetual  summer — oranges,  laurels. 
Whew! 

Julie.     What  are  we  to  start  doing  afterward? 

John.  We  shall  start  a  first-class  hotel  there,  with 
first-class  visitors. 

Julie.     An  hotel? 

John.  That's  a  life,  to  be  sure,  you  take  it  from  me — 
an  endless  succession  of  new  sights,  new  languages ;  not 
a  minute  to  spare  for  sulking  or  brooding;  no-  looking 
for  work,  for  the  work  comes  of  its  own.  The  bell  goes 
on  ringing  day  and  night,  the  train  puffs-,  the  omnibus 
comes  and  goes,  while  the  gold  pieces  roll'  into  the  till. 
That's  a  life,  to  be  sure ! 

Julie.  Yes,  that's  what  you  call  life;  but  what  about 
me? 

John.  The  mistress  of  the  house,  the  ornament  of 
the  firm,  with  your  appearance  and  your  manners — oh! 
success  is  certain.  Splendid!  You  sit  like  a  queen  in 
the  counting  house,  and  set  all  your  slaves  in  motion, 
with  a  single  touch  of  your  electric  bell ;  the  visitors  pass 
in  procession  by  your  throne,  lay  their  treasure  respect- 
fully on  your  table ;  you've  got  no  idea  how  men  tremble 
when  they  take  a  bill  up  in-  their  hand — I'll  touch  up  the 
bills,  and  you  must  sugar  them  with  your  sweetest  laugh. 
Ah,  let's  get  away  from  here.  [He  takes  a  time-table'  out 
of  his  pocket.]  Right  away  by  the  next  train,  by  six- 
thirty  we're  at  Malmo;  at  eight- forty  in  the  morning 
at  Hamburg;  Frankfort — one  day  in  Basle  and  in  Como 
by  the  St.  Gothard  Tunnel  in — let's  see — three  days.  Only 
three  days. 

Julie.  That  all  sounds  very  nice,  but,  John,  you  must 
give  me  courage,  dear.  Tell  me  that  you  love  me,  dear ; 
come  and  take  me  in  your  arms. 

John.     [Hesitating.]     I  should  like  to — but  I  dare  not 


22 

— not  here  in  the  house.  I  love  you,  no  doubt  about  it — 
can  you  have  any  real  doubt  about  it,  Miss? 

Julie.  [With  real  feminine  shame.}  Miss?  Say 
"Dear."  There  are  no  longer  any  barriers  between  us — 
say  "Dear." 

John.  [In  a  hurt  tone.}  I  can't.  There  are  still  bar- 
riers between  us  so  long  as  we  remain  in  this  house: 
there  is  the  past — there  is  my  master  the  Count ;  I  never 
met  a  man  whom  I've  respected  so  much — I've  only  got  to 
see  his  gloves  lying  on  a  chair  and  straight  away  I  feel 
quite  small ;  I've  only  got  to  hear  the  bell  up.  there  and 
I  dash  away  like  a  startled  horse  and — I've  only  got 
to  see  his  boots  standing  there,  so  proud  and  upright, 
and  I've  got  a  pain  inside.  [He  pushes  the  boots  with 
his  feet.}  Superstition,  prejudice,  which  have  been  in- 
oculated into  us  since  our  childhood,  but  which  one  can't 
get  rid  of.  But  only  come  to  another  country,  to  a  re- 
public, and  I'll  make  people  go  on  their  knees  before 
my  porter's  livery — on  their  knees,  do  you  hear?  You'll 
see.  But  not  me :  I'm  not  made  to  go  on  my  knees,  for 
I've  got  grit  in  me,  character,  and,  once  I  get  on  to  the 
first  branch,  you'll  see  me  climb  right  up.  To-day  I'm 
a  servant,  but  next  year  I  shall  be  the  proprietor  of  a 
hotel ;  in  ten  years  I  shall  be  independent ;  then  I'll  take 
a  trip  to  Roumania  and  get  myself  decorated,  and  may 
— note  that  I  say,  may — finish  up  as  a  count. 

Julie.    Good !    Good ! 

John.  Oh,  yes,  the  title  of  Count  is  to  be  bought  in 
Roumania,  and  then  you  will  be  a-  countess — my  countess. 

Julie.  Tell  me  that  you  love  me,  dear,  if  you  don't — 
why,  what  am  I,  if  you  don't? 

John.  I'll  tell  you  a  thousand  times  later  on,  but  not 
here.  And  above  all,  nor  sentimentalism,  if  everything 
isn't  to  go  smash.  We  must  look-  at  the  matter  quietly, 
like  sensible  people.  [He  takes  out  a  cigar,  cuts  off  the 
end,  and  lights  it.}  You  sit  there,  I'll  sit  here;  then  we'll 
have  a  little  chat  just  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 


MISS   JULIE  23 

Julie.     O  my  God !  have  you  no  feeling  then  ? 

John.  Me?  There's  no  man  who  has  more  feeling 
than  I  have ;  but  I  can  control  myself. 

Julie.  A  short  time  back  you  could  kiss  my  shoe — 
and  now? 

John.  [Brutally.]  Yes,  a  little  while  ago,  but  now 
we've  got  something  else  to  think  of. 

Julie.     Don't  talk  brutally  to  me. 

John.  No,  but  I'll  talk  sense.  We've  made  fools  of 
ourselves  once,  don't  let's  do  it  again.  The  Count  may 
turn  up  any  minute  and  we've  got  to  map  out  our  lives 
in  advance.  What  do  you  think  of  my  plans  for  the 
future  ?  Do  you  agree  ? 

Julie.  They  seem  quite  nice,  but  one  question — you 
need  large  capital  for  so  great  an  undertaking — have  you 
got  it? 

John.  [Going  on-  smoking.]  Have  I  got  it?  Of 
course  I  have.  I've  got  my  special  knowledge,  my  ex- 
ceptional experience,  my  knowledge  of  languages,  that's 
a  capital  which  is  worth  something,  seems  to  me. 

Julie.  But  we  can't  buy  a.  single  railway  ticket  with 
all  that. 

John.  That's  true  enough,  and  so  I'll  look  for  some- 
body who  can  put  up  the  money. 

Julie.     Where  can  you  find  a  man  like  that  all  at  once  ? 

John.  Then  you'll  have  to  find  him,  if  you're  going  to 
be  my  companion. 

Julie.  I  can't  do  that,  and  I've  got  nothing  myself. 
[Pause.] 

John.     In  that  case  the  whole  scheme  collapses. 

Julie.     And  ? 

John.     Things-  remain  as  they  are  now. 

Julie.  Do  you  think  I'll  go  on  staying  any  longer  un- 
der this  roof  as  your  mistress?  Do  you  think  I  will  let 
the  people  point  their  finger  at  me?  Do  you  think  that 
after  this  I  can  look  my  father  in  the  face  ?  No !  Take 
me  away  from-  here,  from  all  this  humiliation  and  dis- 


24  MISS   JULIE 

honor !    O  my  God !    What  have  I  done !    O  my  God ! 
My  God!     [She  cries.] 

John.  Ho — ho!  So  that's  the  game — what  have  you 
done?  Just  the  same  as-  a  thousand  other  people  like 
you. 

Julie.  [Screams  as  though  in  a*  paroxysm.}  And  now 
you  despise  me?  I'm-  falling,  I'm  falling! 

John.  Fall  down  to  my  level  and  then  I'll  lift  you  up 
again  afterward. 

Julie.  What  awful  power  dragged  me  down  to  you, 
the  power  which  draws  the  weak  to  the  strong? — which 
draws  him  who  falls  to  him  who  rises  ?  Or  was  it  love  ? — 
love — this !  Do  you  know  what  love  is  ? 

John.  I?  Do  you  really  suggest  that  I  meant  that? 
Don't  you  think  I'd  have  felt  it  already  long  ago? 

Julie.    What  phrases  to  be  sure,  and  what  thoughts ! 

John.  That's  what  I  learned  and  that's  what  I  am. 
But  just  keep  your  nerve  and  don't  play  the  fine  lady. 
We've  got  into  a  mess  and  we've  got  to  get  out  of  it. 
Look  here,  my  girl.  Come  here,  I'll  give  you  an  extra 
glass,  my  dear.  [He  opens  the  sideboard,  takes  out  the 
bottle  of  wine  and  fills  two  of  the  dirty  glasses.] 

Julie.    Where  did  you-  get  the  wine  from  ? 

John.    The  cellar. 

Julie.     My  father's  Burgundy! 

John.  Is  it  too  good  for  his  son-in-law?  I  don't 
think ! 

Julie.    And  I've  been  drinking  beer ! 

John.  That  only  shows  that  you've  got  worse  taste 
than  me. 

Julie.    Thief ! 

John.    Want  to  blab? 

Julie.     Oh,  oh!  the  accomplice  of  a  house-thief.     I 
drank  too  much  last  night  and  I  did  things  in  my  dream. 
Midsummer  Night,  the  feast  of  innocent  joys* 
John.     Innocent !     Hm ! 


MISS   JULIE  25 

Julie.  [Walks  up  and  down.]  Is  there  at  this  mo- 
ment a  human  being  as  unhappy  as  I  am  ? 

John.  Why  are  you?  After  such  a  fine  conquest. 
Just  think  of  Christine  in  there,  don't  you  think  she's 
got  feelings  as  well? 

Julie.  I  used  to  think  so  before,  but  I  don't  think  so 
any  more — no,  a  servant's  a  servant 

John.    And  a  whore's  a  whore. 

Julie.  O  God  in  heaven !  Take  my  miserable  life ! 
Take  me  out  of  this  filth  in  which  I'm  sinking.  Save  me, 
save  me! 

John.  I  can't  gainsay  but  that  you  make  me  feel 
sorry.  Once  upon  a  time  when  I  lay  in  the  onion  bed 
and  saw  you  in  the  rose  garden  then — I'll  tell  you 
straight — I  had  the  same  dirty  thoughts  as  all  youngsters. 

Julie.     And  then  you  wanted  tor  die  for  me ! 

John.     In  the  oat  bin?     That  was  mere  gas. 

Julie.     Lies,  you  mean. 

John.  [Begins  to  .get  sleepy.]  Near  enough.  I  read 
the  story  once  in  the  paper  about  a  chimney-sweep  who 
laid  down  in  a  chest  full  of  lilac  because  he  was  ordered 
to  take  additional  nourishment. 

Julie.     Yes — so  you  are 

John.  What  .other  idea  should  I  have  thought  of? 
One's  always  got  to  capture  a  gal  with  flatteries. 

Julie.     Scoundrel !. 

John.    Whore ! 

Julie.     So  I  must  be  the  first  branch,  must  I  ? 

John.     But  the  branch  was  rotten. 

Julie.  I've  got  to  be  the  notice  board  of  the  hotel, 
have  I  ? 

John^     I'm  going  to  be  the  hotel. 

Julie.  Sit  in  your  office,  decoy  your  customers,  fake 
your  bills. 

JoHn.     I'll  see  to  that  myself. 

Julie*  To  think  that  a  human  being  can  be  so  thor- 
oughly dirty! 


26  MISS   JULIE 

John.     Wash  yourself  clean. 

Julie.  Lackey!  Menial!  Stand  up — you,  when  I'm 
speaking ! 

John.  You  wench  of  a  menial !  Hold  your  jaw  and 
clear  out!  Is  it  for  you  to  come  ragging  me  that  I'm 
rough  ?  No  one  in  my  station  of  life  could  have  made 
herself  so  cheap  as  the  way  you  carried  on  to-night,  my 
girl.  Do  you  think  that  a  clean-minded  girl  excites  men 
in  the  way  that  you  do?  Have  you  ever  seen  a  girl  in 
my  position  offer  herself  in  the  way  you  did? 

Julie.  [Humiliated.]  That's  right,  strike  me,  trample 
on  me!  I  haven't  deserved  anything  better.  I'm  a 
wretched  woman.  But  help  me!  Help  me  to  get  away, 
if  there's  any  chance  of  it. 

John.  [More  gently.]  I  don't  want  to  deny  my  share 
in  the  honor  of  having  seduced  you,  but  do  you  think 
that  a  person  in  my  position  would  have  dared  to  have 
raised  his  eyes  to  you  if  you  yourself  hadn't  invited  him 
to  do  it?  I'm  still  quite  amazed. 

Julie.     And  proud. 

John.  Why  not  ?  Although  I  must  acknowledge  that 
the  victory  was  too  easy  to  make  me  get  a  swelled  head 
over  it. 

Julie.     Strike  me  once  more ! 

John.  [He  gets  up.]  No,  I'd  rather' ask  you  to  for- 
give me  what  I've  already  said.  I  don't  hit  a  defence- 
less person,  and  least  of  all  a  girl.  I  can't  deny  that 
from  one  point  of  view  I  enjoyed  seeing  that  it  was  not 
gold  but  glitter  which  dazzled  us  all  down  below ;  to 
have  seen  that  the  back,  of  the  hawk  was  only  drab,  and 
that  there  was  powder  on  those  dainty  cheeks,  and  that 
those  manicured  nails  could  have  grimy  tips,  that  the 
handkerchief  was  dirty,  even  though  it  did  smell  of 
scent!  But  it  pained  me,  on  the  other  hand,  to  have 
seen  that  the  thing  I'd  been  striving  for  was  not  some- 
thing higher,  something  sounder;  it  pains  me  to  have 
seen  you  sink  so  deep  that  you  are  far  beneath  your  own 


MISS   JULIE  27 

cook;  it  pains  me  to  see  that  the  autumn  flowers  have 
crumpled  up  in  the  rain  and  turned  into  a  mess. 

Julie.  You're  talking  as  though  you  were  already  my 
superior. 

John.  I  am;  look  here,  I  could  change  you  into  a 
countess,  but  you  could  never  make  me  into  a  count ! 

Julie.  But  I  am  bred  from  a  count,  and  that  you  can 
never  be. 

John.  That's  true,  but  I  could  produce  counts  myself 
if 

Julie.    But  you're  a  thief,  and  I'm  not. 

John.  There  are  worse  things  than  being  a  thief; 
that's  not  the  worst ;  besides,  if  I'm  serving  in  a  house- 
hold, I  look  upon  myself  in  a  manner  of  speaking  as  one 
of  the  family,  as  a  child  of  the  house,  and  it  isn't  re- 
garded as  stealing  if  a  child  picks  a  berry  from  a  large 
bunch.  [His  passion  wakes  up  afresh.]  Miss  Julie, 
you're  a  magnificent  woman,  much  too  good  for  the  likes 
of  me.  You've  been  the  prey  of  a  mad  fit  and  you  want 
to  cover  up  your  mistake,  and  that's  why  you've  got  it 
into  your  head  you  love  me,  but  you  don't.  Of  course, 
it  may  be  that  only  my  personal  charms  attract  you— 
and  in  that  case  your  love  is  not  a  bit  better  than  mine ; 
but  I  can  never  be  satisfied  with  being  nothing  more  to 
you  than  a  mere  beast,  and  I  can't  get  your  love. 

Julie.    Are  you  sure  'of  it  ? 

John.  You  mean  it  might  come  about?  I  might  love 
you?  Yes,  no  doubt  about  it,  you're  pretty,  you're  re- 
fined. [He>  approaches  her  and  takes  her  hand.]  Nice, 
when  you  want  to  be,  and  when  you  have  roused  desire 
in  a  man  the  odds  are  that  it  will  never  be  extinguished. 
[He  embraces  her.]  You  are  like  burning  wine,  with 

strong  herbs  in  it,  and  a  kiss  from  you [He  tries 

ta  lead  her  on.  to  the  left,  but  she  struggles  free.] 

Julie.    Let  me  alone !    That's  not  the  way  to  win  me ! 

John.  In  what  way  then?  Not  in  that  way?  Not 
with  caresses  and  pretty  words — not  with  forethought 


28  MISS   JULIE 

for  the  future,  escape  from  disgrace  ?    In  what  way  then  ? 

Julie.  In  what  way  ?  In  what  way  ?  I  don't  know — 
I  have  no  idea.  I  loathe  you  like  vermin,  but  I  can't  be 
without  you. 

John.     Run  away  with  me. 

Julie.  [Adjusts  her.  dress.}  Run  away?  Yes,  of 
course  we'll  run  away.  But  I'm  so  tired.  Give  me  a 
glass  of  wine.  [JOHN  pours  out  the  wine.  JULIE  looks 
at  her  watch.}  But  we  must  talk  first,  we've  still  a  little 
time  to  spare.  [She  drinks  up  the  glass  and  holds  it  out 
for  some  more.] 

John.     Don't  drink  to  such  excess — you'll  get  drunk! 

Julie'.     What  does  it  matter? 

John.  What  does  it  matter  ?  It's  cheap  to  get  drunk. 
What  do  you  want  to  say  to  me  then? 

Julie.  We'll  run  away,  but  we'll  talk  first,  that  means 
I  will  talk,  because  up  to  now  you've  done  all  the  talk- 
ing yourself.  You've  told  me  about  your  life,  now  I'll 
tell  you  about  mine.  Then  we  shall  know  each  other 
thoroughly,  before  we  start  on  our  joint  wanderings. 

John.  One  moment.  Excuse  me,  just  think  if  you 
won't  be  sorry  afterward  for  giving  away  all  the  secrets 
of  your  life. 

Jufie.    Aren't  you  my  friend? 

John.    Yes,  for  a  short  time.    Don't  trust  me. 

Julie.  You  don't  mean  what  you  say.  Besides,  every- 
body knows  my  secrets.  Look  here,  my  mother  was  not 
of  noble  birth,  but  quite  simple ;  she  was  brought  up  in 
the  theories  of  her  period  about  the  equality  and  free- 
dom of  woman  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Then  she  had  a 
distinct  aversion  to  marriage.  When  my  father  pro- 
posed to  her,  she  answered  that  she  would  never  be- 
come his  wife,  but — she  did.  I  came  into  the  world — 
against  the  wish  of  my  mother  so  far  as  I  could  under- 
stand. The  next  was,  that  I  was  brought  up  by  my 
mother  to  lead  what  she  called  a  child's  natural  life,  and 
to  do  that,  I  had  to  learn  everything  that  a  boy  has  to 


MISS   JULIE  29 

learn,  so  that  I  could  be  a  living  example  of  her  theory 
that  a  woman  is  as  good  as  a  man.  I  could  go  about  in 
boys'  clothes.  I  learned  to  groom  horses,  but  I  wasn't 
allowed  to  go  into  the  dairy.  I  had  to  scrub  and  harness 
horses  and  go  hunting.  Yes,  and  at  times  I  had  actually 
to  try  and  learn  farm-  work,  and  at  home  the  men  were 
given  women's  work  and  the  women  wefe  given  men's 
work1 — the  result  was  that  the  property  began  to  go  down 
and  we  became  the  laughing-stock  of  the  whole  neighbor- 
hood. At  last  my  father  appears  to  have  wakened  up 
out  of  his  trance  and  to  have  rebelled ;  then  everything 
was  altered  to  suit  his*  wishes.  My  mother  became  ill. 
I  don't  know  what  the  illness  was,  but  she  often  suffered 
from  seizures,  hid  herself  in  the  grounds  and  in  the  gar- 
den, and  remained  in  the  open  air  the  whole  night.  Then 
came  the  great  fire,  which  you  must  have  heard  about. 
House,  farm  buildings  and  stables  all  were  burnt,  and 
under  circumstances,  mind  you,  which  gave  a  suspicion 
of  arson,  because  the  accident  happened  the  day  after  the 
expiration  of  the  quarterly  payment  of  the  insurance 
instalment,  and  the  premiums  which  my  father  had  sent 
were  delayed  through  the  carelessness  of  the  messenger, 
so  that  they  did  not  get  there  in  time.  [She  fills  her 
glass  and  drinks.] 

John.    Don't  drink  any  more. 

Julie.  Oh,  what  does  it  matter?  We  were  without 
shelter  and  had  to  sleep  in  the  carriage.  My  father  didn't 
know  where  he  was  to  get  the  money  to  build  a  house 
again.  Then  my  mother  advised  him  to  approach  a 
friend  of  her  youth  for  a  loan,  a  tile  manufacturer  in 
the  neighborhood.  Father  got  the  loan,  but  didn't  have 
to  pay  any  interest,  which  made  him  quite  surprised,  and 
then  the  house  was  built.  [She  drinks  dgain.]  You 
know  who  set  fire  to  the  house  ? 

John.     My  lady  your  mother. 

Julie.    Do  you  know  who  the  tile  manufacturer  was  ? 

John.    Your  mother's  lover. 


30  MISS   JULIE 

Julie.     Do  you  know  whose  the  money  was  ? 

John.     Wait  a  minute.    No,  that  I  don't  know. 

Julie.     My  mother's. 

John.  The  Count's  then? — unless  they  were  living 
with  separate  estates? 

Julie.  They  weren't  doing  that.  My  mother  had  a 
small  fortune,  which  she  didn't  allow  my  father  to  han- 
dle, and  she  invested  it  with — the  friend. 

John.    Who  banked  it. 

Julie.  Quite  right.  This  all  came  to  my  father's  ears, 
but  he  could  not  take  any  legal  steps ;  he  couldn't  pay 
his  wife's  lover ;  he  couldn't  prove  that  it  was  his  wife's 
money.  That  was  my  mother's  revenge  for  his  using 
force  against  her  at  home.  He  then  made  up  his  mind 
to  shoot  himself.  The  report  went  about  that  he  had 
wanted  to  do  it,  but  hadn't  succeeded.  He  remained 
alive  then-,  and  my  mother  had  to  settle  for  what  she'd 
done.  That  was  a  bad  time  for  me*  as  you  can  im- 
agine. I  sympathized  with  my  father,  but  I  sided  with 
my  mother,  as  I  didn't  understand  the  position.  I  learnt 
from  her  to  mistrust  and  hate  men,  for,  so  far  as  I 
could  hear,  she  always  hated  men — and  I  swore  to  her 
that  I  would  never  be  a  man's  slave. 

John.    And  then  you  became  engaged  to  Kronvogt? 

Julie.  For  the  simple  reason  that  he  was1  to  have  been 
my  slave. 

John.     And  he  wouldn't  have  it  ? 

Julie.  He  was  willing  enough,  but  nothing  came  of  it* 
I  got  sick  of  him. 

John.     I  saw  it,  in  the  stable. 

Julie.    What  did  you  see? 

John.     I  saw  how  he  broke  off  the  engagement. 

Julie.  That's  a  He.  It  was  I  who  broke  off  the  en- 
gagement. Did  he  say  that  he  did  it  ?  The  scoundrel ! 

John.  No,  he  wasn't  a  scoundrel  at  all.  You  hate  the 
men,  Miss. 


MISS   JULIE  31 

Julie.  Yes — usually,  but  at  times,  when  my  weak  fit 
comes  on — ugh! 

John.     So  you  hate  me  as  well? 

Julie.     Infinitely.    I  could  have  you  killed  like  a  beast. 

John.  The  criminal  is  condemned  to  hard  labor,  but 
the  beast  is  killed. 

Julie.     Quite  right. 

John.  But  there's  no  beast  here — and  no  prosecutor 
either.  What  are  we  going  to  do? 

Julie.    Travel. 

John.    To  torture  each  other  to  death? 

Julie.  No — have  a  good  time  for  two,  three  years,  or 
as  long  as  we  can — and  then  die. 

John.  Die?  What  nonsense!  I'm  all  for  starting  a 
hotel. 

Julie.  [Without  listening  to  him.]  By  the  Lake  of 
Como,  where  the  sun  is  always  shining,  where  the  laurel- 
trees  are  green  at  Christmas  and  the  oranges  glow. 

John.  The  Lake  of  Como  is  a  rainy  hole.  I  didn't  see 
any  oranges  there,  except  in  the  vegetable  shops ;  but  it's 
a  good  place  for  visitors,  because  there  are  a  lot  of  villas 
which  can  be  let  to  honeymooning  couples,  and  that's  a 
very  profitable  industry.  I'll  tell  you  why.  They  take 
a  six  months'  lease — and  travel  away  after  three  weeks. 
'  Julie.  [Naively.]  Why- after  three  weeks  ? 

John.  They  quarrel,  of  course;  but  the  rent's  got  to 
be  paid  all  the  same,  and  then  we  let  again,  and  so  it 
goes  on  one  after  the  other,  for  love  goes  on  to  all 
eternity — even  though  it  doesn't  keep  quite  so  long. 

Julie.     Then  you  won't  die  with  me? 

John.  I  won't  die  at  all  just  yet,  thank  you.  In  the 
first  place,  because  I  still  enjoy  life,  and,  besides,  because 
I  look  upon  suicide  as  a  sin  against  providence,  which- 
has  given  us  life. 

Julie.     Do  you  believe  in  God — you  ? 

John.    Yes,  I  certainly  do,  and  I  go  to  church  every 


32  MISS   JULIE 

other  Sunday.  But,  speaking  frankly,  I'm  tired  of  all 
this,  and  I'm  going  to  bed  now. 

Julie.  You  are,  are  you  ?  And  you  think  that  I'm  sat- 
isfied with  that  ?  Do  you  know  what  a  man  owes  to  the 
woman  he  has  dishonored? 

John.  [Takes  out  his  purse  and  throws  a  silver  coin 
on  the  table.]  If  you  don't  mind,  I  don't  like  being  in 
anybody's  debt. 

Julie.  [As  though  she  had  not  noticed  the  insult.] 
Do  you  know  what  the  law  provides  ? 

John.  Unfortunately  the  law  does  not  provide  any 
penalty  for  the  woman  who  seduces  a  man. 

Julie.  [As  before.]  Can  you  find  any  other  way  out 
than  that  we  should  travel,  marry  and  then  get  divorced 
again  ? 

John.    And  if  I  refuse  to  take  on  the  mesalliance? 

Julie.    Mesalliance? 

John.  Yes,  for  me.  I've  got  better  ancestors  than 
you  have :  I  haven't  got  any  incendiaries  in  my  pedigree. 

Julie.    How  do  you  know? 

John.  At  any  rate,  you  can't  prove  the  contrary,  for 
we  have  no  other  pedigree  than  what  you  can  see  in  the 
registry.  But  I  read  in  a  book  on  the  drawing-room 
table  about  your  pedigree.  Do  you  know  what  the 
founder  of  your  line  was?  A  miller  with  whose  wife 
the  king  spent  a  night  during  the  Danish  war.  I 
don't  run  to  ancestors  like  that.  I've  got  no  ancestors 
at  all,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  but  I  can  be  an  ancestor  myself. 

Julie.  This  is  what  I  get  for  opening  my  heart  to  a 
cad,  for  giving  away  my  family  honor. 

John.  Family  shame,  you  mean.  But,  look  here,  I 
told  you  so ;  people  shouldn't  drink,  because  then  people 
talk  nonsense,  and  people  shouldn't  talk  nonsense. 

Juli.  Oh,  how  I  wish  it  undone,  how  I  wish  it  undone ! 
And  if  you  only  loved  me ! 

John.  For  the  last  time — what  do  you  want?  Do  you 
want  me  to  cry,  do  you  want  me  to  jump  over  your 


MISS   JULIE  33 

riding  whip,  do  you  want  me  to  kiss  you,  or  tempt  you 
away  for  three  weeks  by  the  Lake  of  Como,  and  then, 
what  am  I  to  do? — what  do  you  want?  The  thing's  be- 
ginning to  be  a  nuisance,  but  that's  what  one  gets  for 
meddling  in  the  private  affairs  of  the  fair  sex.  Miss 
Julie,  I  see  you're  unhappy,  I  know  that  you  suffer,  but 
I  can't  understand  you.  People  like  us  don't  go  in  for 
such  fairy  tales ;  we  don't  hate  each  other  either.  We 
take  love  as  a  game,  when  our  work  gives  us  time  off, 
but  we  haven't  got  the  whole  day  and  the  whole  night 
to  devote  to  it.  Let  me  look  at  you.  You  are  ill;  you 
are  certainly  ill ! 

Julie.  You  must  be  kind  to  me,  and  now  talk  like  a 
man.  Help  me !  Help  me !  Tell  me  what  I  must  do—- 
what course  I  shall  take. 

John.     My  Christ!    If  I  only  knew  myself! 

Julie.  I  am  raving,  I  have  been  mad !  But  isn't  there 
any  way  by  which  I  can  be  saved  ? 

John.  Stay  here  and  keep  quiet.  Nobody  knows  any- 
thing. 

Julie.  Impossible !  The  servants  know  it ;  and  Chris- 
tine knows  it. 

John.  They  don't  know  and  they  would  never  believe 
anything  of  the  kind. 

Julie.     [Slowly.]     It  might  happen  again. 

John.     That's  true. 

Julie.     And  the  results? 

John.  The  results  ?  Where  was  I  wool-gathering  not 
to  have  thought  about  it?  Yes,  there's  only  one  thing 
to  do — to  clear  out  at  once.  I  won't  go  with  you,  be- 
cause then  it's  all  up,  but  you  must  travel  alone — away — 
anywhere  you  like. 

Julie.    Alone?    Where?    I  can't  do  it. 

John.  You  must.  And  before  the  Count  comes  back 
too.  If  you  stay  then  you  know  what  will  be  the  result. 
If  one  has  taken  the  first  step,  then  one  goes  on  with 


34  MISS   JULIE 

it,  because  one's  already  in  for  the  disgrace,  and  then  one 
gets  bolder  and  bolder — at  last  you  get  copped — so  you 
must  travel.  Write  later  on  to  the  Count  and  confess 
everything  except  that  it  was  me,  and  he'll  never  guess 
that.  I  don't  think  either  that  he'd  be  very  pleased  if 
he  did  find  out. 

Julie.     I'll  travel,  if  you'll  come  with  me. 

John.  Are  you  mad,  Miss?  Do  you  want  to  elope 
with  your  servant?  It'll  all  be  in  the  papers  the  next 
morning,  and  the  Count  would  never  get  over  it. 

Julie.  I  can't  travel,  I  can't  stay.  Help  me!  I  am 
so  tired,  so  infinitely  tired — give  me  orders,  put  life  into 
me  again  or  I  can't  think  any  more,  and  I  can't  do  any 
more. 

John.  See  here,  now,  what  a  wretched  creature  you 
are!  Why  do  you  strut  about  and  turn  up  your  nose 
as  though  you  were  the  lord  of  creation?  Well,  then, 
I  will  give  you  orders ;  you  go  and  change  your  clothes, 
get  some  money-  to  travel  with  and  come  down  here  again. 

Julie.     [Sotto  voce.]     Come  up  with  me. 

John.  To  your  room?  Now  you're  mad  again.  [He 
hesitates  for  a  moment.]  No,  you  go  at  once.  [He  takes 
her  by  the  hand  and  leads  her  ta  the  glass  door.] 

Julie.  [As  she  goes.]  Please  speak  kindly  to*  me, 
John. 

John.  An  order  always  has  an  unkind  sound.  Just 
feel  it  now  for  yourself,  just  feel  it.  [Exeunt  both. 

[JOHN  comes  back,  gives  a  sigh  of  relief,  sits  down 
at  the  table  by  the  right,  and  takes  out  his  note-book,  now 
and  again  he  counts  aloud;  pantomime.  CHRISTINE  comes 
in  with  a  white  shirt-front  and  a  iVhite  necktie  in  her 
hand.] 

Christine.  Good  Lord !  What  does  the  man  look  like ! 
What's  happened  here? 

John.  Oh,  Miss  Julie  called  in  the  servants.  Were 
you  so  sound  asleep  that  you  didn't  hear  it? 

Christine.     I  slept  like  a  log. 


MISS   JULIE  35 

John.     And  dressed  all  ready  for  church? 

Christine.  Yes.  You  know  you  promised,  dear,  to 
come  to  Communion  with  me  to-day. 

John.  Yes,  that's  true,  and  you've  already  got  some 
of  my  togs  for  me.  Well,  come  here.  [He  sits  down  on 
the  right.  CHRISTINE  gives  him  the  white  front  and  neck- 
tie and  helps  him  to  put  them  on.  Pause.}  [Sleepily.} 
What  gospel  is  it  to-day? 

Christine.  I've  got  an  idea  it's  about  the  beheading 
of  John  the  Baptist. 

John.  That's  certain  to  last  an  awful  time!  Ugh! 
You're  hurting  me.  Oh,  I'm  so  sleepy,  so  sleepy ! 

Christine.  Yes,  what  have  you  been  doing  all  night? 
You  look  absolutely  washed  out. 

John.    I've  been  sitting  here  chatting  with  Miss  Julie. 

Christine.  She  doesn't  know  what's  decent.  My  God ! 
she  doesn't.  [Pause.} 

John.     I  say,  Christine  dear. 

Christine.    Well? 

John.  It's  awfully  strange  when  one  comes  to  think 
it  over. 

Christine.    What's  so  strange  about  her? 

John.     Everything.    [Pause.} 

Christine.  [Looks  at  the  glass  which  stands  half  empty 
on  the  table.}  Did  you  drink  together  as  well? 

John.    Yes. 

Christine.    Ugh !    Look  me  in  the  face. 

John.    Yes. 

Christine.     Is  it  possible?    Is  it  possible? 

John.     [After  reflecting  for  a  short  time.]     Yes,  it  is. 

Christine.  ,  Crikey !  I'd  never  have  thought  it,  that  I 
wouldn't.  No.  Ugh!  Ugh! 

John.    I  take  it  you're  not  jealous  of  her? 

Christine.  No,  not  of  her;  if  it  had  been  Clara  or 
Sophie,  yes,  I  should  have  been.  Poor  girl !  Now,  I  tell 
you  what.  I  won't  stay  any  longer  in  this  house,  where 
one  can't  keep  any  respect  for  the  gentry. 


36  MISS   JULIE 

John.    Why  should  one  respect  them? 

Christine.  Yes,  and  you,  who  are  as  sly  as  they're 
made,  ask  me  that.  But  will  you  serve  people  who  carry 
on  so  improper?  Why,  one  lowers  oneself  by  doing  it, 
it  seems  to  me. 

John.  Yes,  but  it's  certainly  a  consolation  for  us  that 
the  others  are  no  better  than  we  are. 

Christine.  No,  I  don't  find  that ;  because  if  they're  not 
better  it's  not  worth  while  trying  to  be  like  our  betters, 
and  think  of  the  Count,  think  of  him ;  he's  had  so  much 
trouble  all  his  life  long.  No,  I  won't  stay  any  longer 
in  this  house.  And  with  the  likes  of  you !  If  it  had  been 
even  Kronvogt ;  if  it  had  been  a  better  man. 

John.    What  do  you  mean? 

Christine.  Yes,  yes,  you're  quite  a  good  fellow,  I 
know,  but  there's  always  a  difference  between  people  and 
people — and  I  can  never  forget  it.  A  young  lady  who 
was  so  proud,  so  haughty  to  the  men  that  one  could 
never  imagine  that  she  would  ever  give  herself  to  a  man 
— and  then  the  likes  of  you !  Her,  who  wanted  to  have 
the  poor  Diana  shot  dead  at  once,  because  she  ran  after 
a  dog  in  the  courtyard.  Yes,  I  must  say  that ;  but  I  won't 
stay  here  any  longer,  and  on  the  24th  of  October  I  go 
my  way. 

John.    And  then? 

Christine.  Well,  as  we're  on  the  subject,  it  would  be 
about  time  for  you  to  look  out  for  another  job,  as  we 
want  to  get  married. 

John.  Yes,  what  kind  of  a  job  am  I  to  look  out  for? 
I  can't  get  as  good  a  place  as  this,  if  I'm  married. 

Christine.  Of  course  you  can't,  but  you  must  try  to 
get  a  place  as  porter,  or  see  if  you  can  get  a  situation 
as  a  servant  in  some  public  institution.  The  victuals  are 
few  but  certain,  and  then  the  wife  and  children  get  a 
pension. 

John.  [With  a  grimace.]  That's  all  very  fine,  but  it's 
not  quite  my  line  of  country  to  start  off  about  thinking 


MISS   JULIE  37 

of  dying  for  wife  and  child.  I  must  confess  that  I've 
higher  views. 

Christine.  Your  views,  to  be  sure!  But  you've  also 
got  obligations.  Just  think  of  her. 

John.  You  mustn't  nag  me  by  talking  about  my  obli- 
gations. I  know  quite  well  what  I've  got  to  do.  [He 
listens  for  a  sound  outside.]  But  we've  got  time  enough 
to  think  about  all  this.  Go  in,  and  get  ready,  and  then 
we'll  go  to  church. 

Christine.    Who's  walking  about  upstairs  ? 

John.    I  don't  know — perhaps  Clara. 

Christine.  [Goes.]  I  suppose  it  can't  be  the  Count 
who's  come  back  without  anyone  having  heard  him? 

John.  [Nervously.]  No,  I  don't  think  so,  because  then 
he'd  have  rung  already. 

Christine.  Yes.  God  knows.  I've  gone  through  the 
likes  of  this  before.  {Exit  to  the  right.  The  sun  has 
risen  in  the  meanwhile  and  gradually  illuminates  the  tops 
of  the  trees  outside,  the  light  grows  gradually  deeper  till 
it  falls  slanting  on  the  window.  JOHN  goes  to  the  glass 
door  and  makes  a  sign.] 

Julie.  [Comes  in  in  traveling  dress,  with  a  small  bird 
cage  covered  with  a  handkerchief,  and  places  it  on  a 
chair.]  I'm  ready  now. 

John.    Hush !    Christine  is  awake. 

Julie.  [Extremely  excited  in  the  following  scene.]  Did 
she  have  any  idea? 

John.  She  knows  nothing.  But,  my  God !  what  a  sight 
you  look. 

Julie.    What!  How  dp  I  look? 

John.  You're  as  white  as  a  corpse  and,  pardon  my 
saying  it,  your  face  is  dirty. 

Julie.  Then  give  me  some  water  to  wash — all  right. 
[She  goes  to  the  wdshing-stand  and  washes  her  face  and 
hands.]  Give  me  a  towel.  Ah!  the  sun  has  risen. 

John.     And  then  the  hobgoblin  flies  away. 

Julie.    Yes,  a  goblin  has  really  been  at  work  last  night. 


38  MISS   JULIE 

Listen  to  me.    Come  with  me.    I've  got  the  needful,  John. 

John.     [Hesitating.]     Enough? 

Julie.  Enough  to  start  on.  Come  with  me,  I  can't 
travel  alone  to-day.  Just  think  of  it.  Midsummer  Day 
in  a  stuffy  train,  stuck  in  among  a  lot  of  people  who  stare 
at  one ;  waiting  about  at  stations  when  one  wants  to  fly. 
No  ;  I  can't  do  it !  I  can't  do  it !  And  then  all  my  mem- 
ories, my  memories  of  Midsummer's  Day  when  I  was  a 
child,  with  the  church  decorated  with  flowers — birch  and 
lilac ;  the  midday  meal  at  a  splendidly  covered  table ;  rela- 
tives and  friends ;  the  afternoon  in  the  park ;  dancing 
and  music,  flowers  and  games.  Ah!  you  can  run  away 
and  run  away,  but  your  memories,  your  repentance  and 
your  pangs  of  conscience  follow  on  in  the  luggage  van. 

John.  I'll  come  with  you,  but  right  away,  before  it's 
too  late.  Now.  Immediately. 

Julie.    Then  get  ready.     [She  takes  up  the  bird  cage.] 

John.     But  no  luggage.    In  that  case  we're  lost. 

Julie.  No,  no  luggage,  only  what  we  can  take  with 
us  in  the  compartment. 

John.  [Has  taken  a  hat.]  What  have  you  got  there 
then  ?  What  is  it  ? 

Julie.  It's  only  my  little  canary.  I  don't  want  to  leave 
it  behind. 

John.  Come,  I  say!  Have  we  got  to  cart  along  a 
bird  cage  with  us  ?  How  absolutely  mad !  Leave  the  bird 
there ! 

Julie.  The  only  thing  I'm  taking  with  me  from  home ! 
The  one  living  creature  that  likes  me,  after  Diana  was 
faithless  to  me!  Don't  be  cruel.  Let  me  take  it  with 
me! 

John.  Leave  it  there,  I  tell  you — and  don't  talk  so  loud. 
Christine  might  hear  us. 

Julie.  No,  I  won't  leave  it  behind  among  strangers. 
I'd  rather  you  killed  it. 

John.  Then  give  me  the  little  thing ;  I'll  twist  its  neck 
for  it. 


MISS   JULIE  39 

Julie.    Yes,  but  don't  hurt  it ;  don't !    No,  I  can't ! 

John.     Hand  it  over — I'll  do  the  trick. 

Julie.  [Takes  the  bird  out  of  the  cage  and  kisses  it.] 
Oh,  my  dicky  bird !  Must  you  die  by  the  hand  of  your 
own  mistress  ? 

John.  Be  good  enough  not  to  make  any  scene;  your 
life  and  well-being  are  at  stake.  That's  right,  quick !  [He 
snatches  the  bird  out  of  her  hand,  carries  it  to  the  chop- 
ping block,  and  takes  the  kitchen  knife.}  [ JULIE  turns 
round^}  You  should  have  learned  to  kill  fowls  instead 
of  shooting  with  your  revolver.  [Chops.]  And  then  you 
wouldn't  have  fainted  at  the  sight  of  a  drop  of  blood. 

Julie.  [Shrieking.]  Kill  me  too,  kill  me !  If  you  can 
kill  an  innocent  animal  without  your  hand  shaking !  Oh, 
I  hate  and  loathe  you !  There  is  blood  between  us !  I 
curse  the  hour  in  which  I  saw  you !  I  curse  the  hour  in 
which  I  was  born ! 

John.  Now,  what's  the  good  of  your  cursing?  Let's 
go! 

Julie.  [Approaches  the  chopping  block  as  though  at- 
tracted to  it  against  her  will.]  No,  I  won't  go  yet,  I  can't 
— I  must  see.  Hush !  there's  a  wagon  outside.  [She  lis- 
tens, while  her  eyes  are  riveted  in  a  stare  on  the  chopping 
block  and  the  knife.]  Do  you  think  I  can't  look  at  any 
blood  ?  Do  you  think  I'm  so  weak  ?  Oh  !  I'd  just  like  to 
see  your  blood  and  your  brains  on  the  chopping  block. 
I'd  like  to  see  your  whole  stock  swimming  in  a  lake, 
like  the  one  there.  I  believe  I  could  drink  out  of  your 
skull !  I  could  wash  my  feet  in  your  chest !  I  could  eat 
your  heart  roasted !  You  think  I  am  weak  1  You  think 
I  love  you !  You  think  I  mean  to  carry  your  spawn  under 
my  heart  and  feed  it  with  my  own  blood ;  bear  your  child 
and  give  it  your  name !  I  say,  you,  what  is  your  name  ? 
I've  never  heard  your  surname — you  haven't  got  any,  I 
should  think.  I  shall  be  Mrs.  Head  Waiter,  or  Madame 
Chimney  Sweeper.  You  hound !  You,  who  wear  my  liv- 
ery, you  menial,  who  wear  my  arms  on  your  buttons — 


40  MISS   JULIE 

I've  got  to  go  shares  with  my  cook,  have  I  ? — to  compete 
with  my  own  servant?  Oh!  oh!  oh!  You  think  I'm  a 
coward  and  want  to  run  away?  No,  now  I'm  going  to 
stay,  and  then  the  storm  can  burst.  My  father  comes 
home — he  finds  his  secretary  broken  open  and  his  money 
stolen — then  he  rings  the  bell  twice — for  his  servant — 
and  then  he  sends  for  the  police — and  then  I  shall  tell 
him  everything.  Everything!  Oh,  it's  fine  to  make  an 
end  of  the  thing — if  it  would  only  have  an  end.  And 
then  he  gets  a  stroke,  and  dies — and  that's  the  end  of  the 
whole  story.  And  then  comes  peace  and  quiet — eternal 
peace.  And  then  the  escutcheon  is  broken  over  the  coffin : 
the  noble  race  is  extinct — and  the  servant's  brat  grows  up 
in  a  foundling  hospital — and  wins  his  spurs  in  the  gutter, 
and  finishes  up  in  a  prison.  [CHRISTINE,  dressed  for 
church,  enters  on  the  right,  hymn  book  in  hand.  JULIE 
rushes  to  her  and  falls  into  her  arms,  as  though  seeking 
protection.]  Help  me,  Christine;  help  me  against  this 
man! 

Christine.  [Immobile  and  cold.]  What  a  pretty  sight 
for  a  holiday  morning!  [She  looks  at  the  chopping  block.] 
And  what  a  dirty  mess  you've  been  making  here !  What 
can  it  all  mean?  How  you're  shrieking  and 

Julie.  Christine,  you're  a  woman,  and  my  friend.  Be- 
ware of  this  scoundrel. 

John.  [Slightly  shy  and  embarrassed.]  If  you  ladies 
want  to  have  an  argument,  I'll  go  in  and  have  a  shave. 
[He  sneaks  away  to  the  right.] 

Julie.  You  will  understand  me,  and  you  must  do  what 
I  tell  you. 

Christine.  No,  I  certainly  don't  understand  such  car- 
ryings-on. Where  are  you  going  to  in  your  traveling 
dress  ?  And  he's  got  his  hat  on.  What's  it  all  mean  ? 

Julie.  Listen  to  me,  Christine ;  listen  to  me ;  then  I'll 
tell  you  everything. 

Christine.     I  don't  want  to  know  anything. 

Julie.    You  must  listen  to  me. 


MISS   JULIE  41 

Christine.  What  is  it,  then?  Your  tomfoolery  with 
John?  Look  here;  I  don't  care  anything  about  that,  be- 
cause it  had  nothing  to  do  with  me,  but  if  you  think  you're 
going  to  tempt  him  to  elope  with  you,  then  we'll  put  a 
very  fine  spoke  in  your  little  wheel. 

Julie.  [Extremely  excited,]  Try  to  be  calm,  Christine, 
and  listen  to  me !  I  can't  stay  here,  and  John  can't  stay 
here,  so  we  must  travel. 

Christine.    Hm,  hm! 

Julie.  [With  sudden  inspiration.]  But,  look  here.  I've 
got  an  idea  now.  How  about  if  we  all  three  went — 
abroad — to  Switzerland  and  started  a  hotel  together  ?  I've 
got  money.  [She  shows  it.]  You  see;  and  John  and  I 
will  look  after  the  whole  thing,  and  you,  I  thought,  could 
take  over  the  kitchen.  Isn't  it  nice?  Just  say  yes,  and 
come  with  us,  and  all  is  fixed  up.  Just  say  yes.  [She 
embraces  CHRISTINE  and  hugs  her  tenderly.] 

Christine.     [Cold  and  contemplative.]  Hm,  hm! 

Julie.  [Quicker.]  You've  never  been  out  and  traveled, 
Christine — you  must  come  out  in  the  world  and  look 
round;  you  can  have  no  idea  how  jolly  it  is  to  travel 
on  a  railway — to  be  always  seeing  new  people — new  coun- 
tries. And  then  we  get  to  Hamburg  and  take  a  trip 
through  the  Zoological  Gardens.  What  do  you  think 
of  it?  And  then  we'll  go  to  the  theater  and  hear  the 
opera — and  when  we  get  to  Munich  we've  got  the  mu- 
seums, and  there  are  Rubenses  and  Raphaels — pictures  by 
the  two  great  painters,  you  see.  You've  heard  people  talk 
of  Munich,  where  King  Ludwig  used  to  live — the  king, 
you  know,  who  went  mad — and  then  we'll  go  over  his 
castles — he  has  castles  which  are  got  up  just  like  fairy 
tales — and  it's  not  far  from  there  to  Switzerland — with 
the  Alps.  Ugh !  just  think  of  the  Alps  covered  with  snow 
in  the  middle  of  summer ;  and  tangerines  and  laurel  trees 
grow  there  which  are  in  bloom  the  whole  year  round. 
[JOHN  appears  on  the  right,  stretching  his  razor  on  a 
strop,  which  he  holds  with  his  teeth  and  his  left  hand. 


42  MISS   JULIE 

He  listens  with  pleasure  to  her  speech,  and  now  and  again 
nods  assent.]  {Extremely  quickly.}  And  then  we  take 
a  hotel — and  I  sit  in  the  bureau  while  John  stands  up 
and  receives  the  visitors — goes  out  and  does  business — 
writes  letters.  That's  a  life,  you  take  it  from  me;  then 
the  train  puffs,  the  omnibus  comes,  the  bells  ring  in  the 
hotel  itself,  the  bell  rings  in  the  restaurant — and  then  I 
make  out  the  bills — and  I'll  touch  them  up — you  can  have 
no  idea  how  shy  travelers  are  when  they've  got  to  pay 
their  bill.  And  you — you're  installed  as  mistress  in  the 
kitchen.  Of  course,  you  haven't  yourself  got  to  stand 
by  the  fireplace,  and  you've  got  to  have  nice  pretty  dresses 
when  you  have  to  appear  before  the  visitors — and  a  girl 
with  an  appearance  like  you — no,  I'm  not  flattering  you — 
you  can  get  a  husband  perhaps  some  fine  day,  some  rich 
Englishman ;  you  see,  people  are  so  easy  to  catch.  [She 
commences  to  speak  more  slowly.]  And  then  we  shall 
get  rich — and  we'll  build  a  villa  by  Lake  Como — of  course 
it  rains  there  now  and  then,  but  [in  a  less  tense  tone] 
there's  certain  to  be  a  great  deal  of  sun — even  though 
there's  gloomy  weather  as  well — and — then — then  we  can 
travel  home  again — and  come  back  [pause]  here — or  any- 
where else. 

Christine.  Look  here,  Miss ;  do  you  believe  in  all  this 
yourself  ? 

Julie.     [Crushed..]    Do  I  believe  in  it  myself? 

Christine.     Yes. 

Julie.  [Tired.]  I  don't  know.  I  don't  really  believe 
in  anything  any  more.  [She  sits  down  on  the  seat  and 
lays  her  head  on  the  table  between  her  arms.]  In  any- 
thing, in  anything  at  all. 

Christine.  [Turns  to  the  left,  where  JOHN  is  standing.] 
So  you  thought  you'd  elope,  did  you  ? 

John.  [Shamefaced,  puts  his  rasor  on  the  table.] 
Elope  ?  Come,  that's  a  big  word — you  heard  Miss  Julie's 
plan;  and  although  she's  tired  now,  from  having  been 
up  all  night,  the  scheme  can  still  be  put  through. 


MISS   JULIE  43 

Christine.  I  say,  did  you  mean  that  I  should  be  cook 
there,  for  her? 

John.  [Sharply.]  Be  so  kind  as  to  speak  more  re- 
fined when  you're  talking  of  your  mistress.  Understand? 

Christine.    Mistress  ? 

John.    Yes. 

Christine.    No.    I  say,  I  say  there— 

John.  Yes,  listen  to  me.  It  is  much  better  for  you  if 
you  do,  and  don't  gabble  so  much.  Miss  Julie  is  your 
mistress,  and  you  ought  to  despise  yourself  for  the  same 
reason  that  you  despise  her. 

Christine.    I  have  always  had  so  much  self-respect 

John.     That  you  can  despise  others. 

Christine.  That  I  have  never  lowered  myself  below 
my  place.  Just  say,  if  you  can,  that  the  Count's  cook 
had  anything  to  do  with  the  cattleman  or  the  swineherd. 
You  just  try  it  on ! 

John.  Quite  so.  You  had  a  little  something  on  with 
a  nice  fellow,  and  very  lucky  for  you,  too. 

Christine.  A  nice  fellow,  to  be  sure,  who  sells  the 
Count's  oats  out  of  the  stable. 

John.  You're  a  nice  one  to  talk ;  you  get  commissions 
from  the  vegetable  man  and  ain't  above  being  squared  by 
the  butcher. 

Christine.    What  ? 

John.  And  so  it's  you  that  can't  respect  your  mistress 
any  more !  You — you — I  don't  think ! 

Christine.  Come  along  to  church  now.  A  good  ser- 
mon'll  do  you  a  lot  of  good  after  the  way  you've  been 
carrying  on. 

John.  No  fear,  I'm  not  going  to  church  to-day.  You 
go  alone,  and  confess  your  own  sins. 

Christine.  Yes,  that  I  will,  and  I'll  come  home  with 
forgiveness,  and  for  you  too ;  the  Redeemer  suffered  and 
died  on  the  cross  for  all  our  sins,  and  if  we  go  to  Him 
with  faith  and  a  contrite  spirit  then  He  will  take  all  our 
guilt  on  Himself. 


44  MISS   JULIE 

Julie.    Do  you  believe  that,  Christine  ? 

Christine.  That's  my  living1  faith,  as  true  as  I  stand 
here,  and  that's  my  faith  from  a  child,  that  I've  kept  ever 
since  I  was  young,  and  where  sin  overflows  there  grace 
overflows  as  well. 

Julie.    Ah,  if  I  had  your  faith !    Ah,  if 

Christine.     Mark  you,  one  can't  just  go  and  get  it. 

Julie.     Who  gets  it,  then? 

Christine.  That's  the  great  secret  of  grace,  Miss,  mark 
you,  and  God  is  no  respecter  of  persons,  but  the  first 
shall  be  last. 

Julie.  Yes,  but  then  He  is  a  respecter  of  persons — 
the  last. 

Christine.  [Continues.]  And  it  is  easier  for  a  camel 
to  go  through  the  eye  of  a  needle  than  for  a  rich  man 
to  get  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  Mark  you  that's  what 
it  is,  Miss  Julie.  Well,  I'm  off — alone,  and  on  the  way 
I'll  tell  the  stable  boy  not  to  let  out  any  horses,  in  case 
anybody  wants  to  travel,  before  the  Count  comes  home. 
Adieu!  [Exit  through  the  glass  door.] 

John.    What  a  devil !    And  all  that  fuss  about  a  canary. 

Julie.  [Limply.}  Leave  the  canary  out  of  it.  Can 
you  see  a  way  out  of  all  this? — an  end  for  the  whole 
thing? 

John.     [Ponders.]    No. 

Julie.    What  would  you  do  in  my  position? 

John.  In  your  position  ?  Just  wait  a  minute,  will  you  ? 
As  a  girl  of  good  birth,  as  a  woman — as  a  fallen  woman  ? 
I  don't  know.  Ah !  I've  got  it ! 

Julie.  [Takes  up  the  razor  and  makes  a  movement.} 
That? 

John.  Yes,  but  I  wouldn't  do  it — note  that  well ;  that's 
the  difference  between  us. 

Julie.  Because  you're  a  man  and  I'm  a  woman  ?  What 
difference  does  that  make  ? 

John.  The  same  difference — as  between  men  and 
women. 


MISS   JULIE  45 

Julie.  [With  the  knife  in  her  hand.]  I  want  to,  but  I 
can't  do  it.  My  father  couldn't  do  it  either — the  time 
when  he  ought  to  have. 

John.  No;  he  shouldn't  have  done  it — his  first  duty 
was  to  revenge  himself. 

Julie.  And  now  my  mother  avenges  herself  again 
through  me. 

John.    Have  you  never  loved  your  father,  Miss  Julie? 

Julie.  Yes,  infinitely — but  I'm  sure  that  I've  hated  him 
as  well.  I  must  have  done  it  without  having  noticed  it 
myself,  but  he  brought  me  up  to  despise  my  own  sex,  to 
be  half  a  woman  and  half  a  man.  Who  is  to  blame  for 
what  has  happened?  My  father,  my  mother,  I  myself? 
I  myself?  I  haven't  got  a  self  at  all,  I  haven't  got  a 
thought  which  I  don't  get  from  my  father,  I  haven't  got 
a  passion  which  I  don't  get  from  my  mother,  and  the 
latest  phase — the  equality  of  men  and  women — that  I 
got  from  my  fiance,  whom  I  called  a  scoundrel  for  his 
pains.  How  then  can  it  be  my  own  fault  ?  To  shove  the 
blame  on  Jesus  like  Christine  does — no,  I've  got  too  much 
pride  and  too  much  common  sense  for  that — thanks  to 
my  father's  teaching.  And  as  for  a  rich  man  not  being 
able  to  get  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  that's  a  lie.  Chris- 
tine has  got  money  in  the  savings  bank.  Certainly  she 
won't  get  in.  Who  is  responsible  for  the  wrong  ?  What 
does  it  matter  to  us  who  is?  I  know  I've  got  to  put  up 
with  the  blame  and  the  consequences. 

John.  Yes — but [There  are  two  loud  rings  in  suc- 
cession. JULIE  starts;  JOHN  quickly  changes  his  coat,  on 
the  left.]  The  Count's  at  home — just  think  if  Chris- 
tine   [He  goes  to  the  speaking  tube  at  the  back, 

whistles,  and  listens.] 

Julie.  He  must  have  already  gone  to  his  secretary  by 
now. 

John.  It's  John,  my  lord.  [He  listens.  What  the 
Count  says  is  inaudible.]  Yes,  my  lord.  \He  listens.] 


46  MISS   JULIE 

Yes,  my  lord.  At  once.  [He  listens.]  Very  well,  my 
lord.  [He  listens.]  Yes,  in  half-an-hour. 

Julie.  [Extremely  nervous.}  What  did  he  say?  My 
God!  what  did  he  say? 

John.  He  asked  for  his  boots  and  his  coffee  in  half- 
an-hour. 

Julie.  In  half-an-hour  then.  Oh,  I'm  so  tired,  I  can't 
do  anything;  I  can't  repent,  I  can't  run  away,  I  can't 
stay,  I  can't  live,  I  can't  die.  Help  me  now!  Give  me 
orders  and  I'll  obey  like  a  dog.  Do  me  this  last  service ! 
Save  my  honor — save  my  name !  You  know  what  I  ought 
to  will,  but  don't  will.  Do  you  will  it  and  order  me  to 
accomplish  it. 

John.  I  don't  know — but  now  I  can't  either.  I  can't 
make  it  out  myself — it's  just  as  though  it  were  the  result 
of  this  coat  I've  just  put  on,  but  I  can't  give  you  any 
orders.  And  now,  after  the  Count  has  spoken  to  me,  I 
can't  explain  it  properly — but — ah!  it's  the  livery  which 
I've  got  on  my  back.  I  believe  if  the  Count  were  to 
come  in  now  and  order  me  to  cut  my  throat  I'd  do  it  on 
the  spot. 

Julie.  Then  just  do  as  though  you  were  he,  and  I  were 
you.  You  could  imagine  it  quite  well  a  minute  ago,  when 
you  were  before  me  on  your  knees.  Then  you  were  a 
knight.  Have  you  ever  been  to  the  theater  and  seen  the 
mesmerist?  [JOHN  makes  a  gesture  of  assent.]  He  says 
to  the  medium,  "Take  the  broom" ;  he  takes  it ;  he  says 
"Sweep,"  and  he  sweeps. 

John.     But  in  that  case  the  medium  must  be  asleep. 

Julie.  [Exalted.]  I  am  already  asleep.  The  whole 
room  looks  as  though  it  were  full  of  smoke — and  you  look 
like  an  iron  furnace — which  is  like  a  man  in  black  clothes 
and  top  hat — and  your  eyes  glow  like  coals  when  the  fire 
goes  out — and  your  face  is  a  white  blur  like  cinders. 
\The  sunlight  has  now  reached  the  floor  and  streams  over 
JOHN.]  It's  so  warm  and  fine.  [She  rubs  her  hands  as 


MISS   JULIE  47 

though  she  were  warming  them  by  a  fire.]  And  then  it's 
so  light — and  so  quiet. 

John.  [Takes  the  razor  and  puts  it  in  her  hand.] 
There  is  the  broom ;  go,  now  that  it's  light,  outside  into 
the  barn — and [He  whispers  something  in  her  ear.] 

Julie.  [Awake.]  Thank  you.  Now  I'm  going  to  have 
peace,  but  tell  me  now  that  the  first  shall  have  their  share 
of  grace  too.  Tell  me  that,  even  though  you  don't  be- 
lieve it. 

John.  The  first  ?  No,  I  can't  do  that ;  but,  one  minute, 
Miss  Julie — I've  got  it,  you  don't  belong  any  longer  to 
the  first — you  are  beneath  the  last. 

Julie.  That's  true — I  am  beneath  the  very  last ;  I  am 
the  last  myself.  Oh — but  now  I  can't  go.  Tell  me  again 
that  I  must  go. 

John.    No,  I  can't  do  that  again  now  either.    I  can't. 

Julie.    And  the  first  shall  be  last. 

John.  Don't  think,  don't  think!  You  rob  me  of  all 
my  strength  and  make  a  coward  of  me.  What?  I  be- 
lieve the  clock  was  moving.  No — shall  we  put  paper  in  ? 
To  be  so  funky  of  the  sound  of  a  clock !  But  it's  some- 
thing more  than  a  clock — there's  something  that  sits  be- 
hind it — a  hand  puts  it  in  motion,  and  something  else  sets 
the  hand  in  motion — just  put  your  fingers  to  your  ears, 
and  then  it  strikes  worse  again.  It  strikes  until  you 
give  an  answer  and  then  it's  too  late,  and  then  come  the 

police — and  then [Two  loud  rings  in  succession, 

JOHN  starts,  then  he  pulls  himself  together.]  It's  awful, 
but  there's  no  other  way  out.  Go!  [ JULIE  goes  with  a 
firm  step  outside  the  door.]  [Curtain. 


THE  CREDITOR 


CHARACTERS 
THEKLA. 

ADOLF,  her  husband,  a  painter. 
GUSTAV,  her  divorced  husband. 
Two  LADIES,  a  WAITER. 


THE  CREDITOR 


SCENE 

'A  small  -watering  'place.  Time,  the  present.  Stage 
directions  with  reference  to  the  actors. 

A  drawing  room  in  a  watering  place;  furnished  as 
above. 

Door  in  the  middle,  with  a  view  out  on  the  sea;  side 
doors  right  and  left;  by  the  side  door  on  the  left  the 
button  of  an  electric  bell;  on  the  right  of  the  door  in  the 
center  a  table,  with  a  decanter  of  water  and  a  glass.  On 
the  left  of  the' door  in  the  center  a  what-not;  cm  the  right 
a  fireplace  in  front;  on  the  right  a  round  table  and  arm- 
chairs; on  the  left  a  sofa,  a  square  table,  a-  settee;  on  the 
table  a  small  pedestal  with  a  draped  -figure — pampers,  books, 
armchairs.  Only  the  items  of  furniture  which  are  intro- 
duced into  the  action  are  referred  to  in  the  above  plan. 
The  rest  of  the  scenery  remains  unaffected.  It  is  summer, 
and  the  daytime. 

SCENE  I 

[ADOL.F  sits  on  the  settee  on  the  left  of  the  square  table; 
his  stick  is  propped  up  near  him.] 

Adolf.     And  it's  you  I've  got  to  thank  for  all  this. 

Gustav.  [Walks  up  and  down  on  tht  right,  smoking 
a  cigar.]  Oh,  nonsense. 

Adolf.  Indeed,  I  have.  Why,  the  first  day  after  my 
wife  went  away,  I  lay  on  my  sofa  like  a  cripple  and  gave 
myself  up  to  my  depression;  it  was  as  though  she  had 
taken  my  crutches,  and  I  couldn't  move  from  the  spot. 

Si 


52  THE   CREDITOR 

A  few  days  went  by,  and  I  cheered  up  and  began  to  pull 
myself  together.  The  delirious  nightmares  which  my 
brain  had  produced,  went  away.  My  head  became  cooler 
and  cooler.  A  thought  which  I  once  had  came  to  the 
surface  again.  My  desire  to  work,  my  impulse  to  create, 
woke  up.  My  eye  got  back  again  its  capacity  for  sound, 
sharp  observation.  You  came,  old  man. 

Gustav.  Yes,  you  were  in  pretty  low  water,  old  man, 
when  I  came  across  you,  and  you  went  about  on  crutches. 
Of  course,  that  doesn't  prove  that  it  was  simply  my  pres- 
ence that  helped  so  much  to  your  recovery;  you  needed 
quiet,  and  you  wanted  masculine  companionship. 

Adolf.  You're  right  in  that,  as  you  are  in  everything 
else  you  say.  I  used  to  have  it  in  the  old  days.  But 
after1  my  marriage  it  seemed  unnecessary.  I  wUs  satisfied 
with  the  friend  of  my  heart  whom  I  had  chosen.  All  the 
same  I  soon  got  into  fresh  set&t  and  made  many  new  ac- 
quaintances. But  then  my  wife  got  jealous.  She  wanted 
to  have  me  quite  to  herself ;  but  much  worse  than  that, 
my  friends  wanted  to  have  her  quite  to  themselves — and 
so  I  was  left  out  in  the  cold  with  my  jealousy. 

Gustav.  You-  were  predisposed  to  this  illness,  you 
knpw  that.  [He  passes-  on  the  left  behind  the  square  fable, 
and  comes  to  ADOLF'S  left.] 

Adolf.  I  was  afraid  of  losing  her — and  tried  to  pre«- 
vent  it.  Are  you  surprised  at  it?  I  was  never  afraid 
for  a  moment  that  she'd  be  unfaithful  to  me. 

Gustav.    What  husband  ever  was  afraid  ? 

Adolf.  Strange,  isn't  it?  All  I  troubled  about  was 
simply  this — about  friends  getting  influence  over  her  and 
so  being  able  indirectly  to  acquire"  power  over  me — and 
I  couldn't  bear  that  at  all. 

Gustav.  So  you  and  your  wifedidn.'t  have  quite  iden- 
tical views? 

Adolf.  I've  told  you  so  much,  you  may  as  well  know 
everything — my  wife  is  an  independent  character.  [  GUS- 
TAV laughs.}  What  are  you  laughing  at,  old  man? 


THE   CREDITOR  53 

Gustav.  Go  on,  go  on.  She's  an  independent  charac- 
ter, is  she? 

Adolf.     She  won't  take  anything.-from  me. 

Gu-stav.     But  she  does  from  everybody  else? 

Adolf.  [After  a  pause.}  Yes.  And  I've  felt  about  all 
this,  that  the  only  reason  why  my  views  were  so  awfully 
repugnant  to  her,  was  because  they  were  mine,  not  be- 
cause they  appeared  absurd  on  their  intrinsic  merits.  For 
it  often  happened  that  she'd  trot  out  my  old  ideas,  and 
champion  them  with  gusto  as  her  own.  Why,  it  even 
came  about  that  one  of  my  friends  gave  her  ideas  which 
he  had  borrowed  direct  from  me.  She  found  them  de- 
lightful ;  she  found  everything  delightful  that  didn't  come 
from  me. 

Gustav;    In.  other  words,  you're  not  truly  happy. 

Adolf.  Oh,  yes,  I  am.  The  woman'  whom  I  desired 
is  mine,  and  I  never  wished  for  any  other. 

Gustav.    Do  you  never  wish  to  be  free  either  ? 

Adolf.  I  wouldn't  like  to  go  quite  so  far  as  that.  Of 
course  the  thought  crops  up  now  and  again,  how  calmly 
I  should  be  able  to  live  if  I  were  free — but  she  scarcely 
leaves  me  before  I  immediately  long  for  her  again,  as 
though  she  were  my  arm,  my  leg.  Strange.  When  I'm 
alone  I  sometimes  feel  as  though  she  didn't  have  any  real 
self  of  her  own,  as  though  she  were  a  part  of  my  ego,  a 
piece  out  of  my  inside,  that  stole  away  all  my  will,  all  my 
joi  de  vvvre.  Why,  my  very  marrow  itself,  to  use  an 
anatomical  expression,  is  situated  in  her;  that's  what  it 
seems  like. 

Gustav.  Viewing  the  matter  broadly,  that  seems  quite 
plausible. 

Adolf.  Nonsense.  An  independent  person  like  she  is, 
with  such  a  tremendous  lot  of  personal  views,  and  when 
I  met  her,  what  was  I  then  ?  Nothing.  An  artistic  child 
which  she  brought  up. 

Gustav.  But  afterward  you  developed  her  intellect  and 
educated  her,  didn't  you? 


54  THE   CREDITOR 

Adolf.  No;  her  growth  remained  stationary,  and  I 
shot  up. 

Gustav.  Yes ;  it's  really  remarkable,  but  her  literary 
talent  already  began  to  deteriorate  after  her  first  book, 
or,  to  put  it  as  charitably  as  possible,  it  didn't  develop 
any  further.  [He  sits  down  opposite  ADOLF  on  the  sofa 
on  the  left.}  Of  course  she  then  had  the  most  promising 
subject  matter — for  of  course  she  drew  the  portrait  of 
her  first  husband — you  never  knew  him,  old  man?  He 
must  have  been  an  unmitigated  ass. 

Adolf.  I've  never  seen  him.  He  was  away  for  more 
than  six  months,  but  the  good  fellow  must  have  been  as 
perfect  an  ass  as  they're  made,  judging  by  her  descrip- 
tion— you  can  take  it  from  me,  old  man,  that  her  de- 
scription wasn't  exaggerated. 

Gustav.     Quite ;  but  why  did  she  marry  him  ? 

Adolf.  She  didn't  know  him  then.  People  only  get 
to  know  orre  another  afterward,  don't  you  know. 

Gustav.  But,  according  to  that,  people  have  no  busi- 
ness to  marry  until Well,  the  man  was  a  tyrant, 

obviously. 

Adolf.    Obviously  T 

Gustav.  What  husband  wouldn't  be?  [Casually.} 
Why,  old  chap-,  you're  as  much  a  tyrant  as:  any  of  the 
others. 

Adolf.  Me?  I?  Why,  I  allow  my  wife  to  come  and 
go  as  she  jolly  well  pleases ! 

Gustav.  [Stands  up.}  Pah!  a  lot  of  good  that  is.  I 
didn't  suppose  you  kept  her  locked  up.  [He  turns  round 
behind  the  square  table  and  comes"  over  to  ADOLF  on  the 
right.}  Don't  you  mind  if  she»'s  out  all  night? 

Adolf.     I  should  think  I  do. 

Gustav.  Look  here.  [Resuming,  his  earlier  tone.} 
Speaking  as  man  to  man,  it  simply  makes  you-  ridiculous. 

Adolf.  Ridiculous?  Can  a  man's  trusting  his  wife 
make  him  ridiculous  ? 

Gustav.     Of  course  it  can.     And  you've  been  so  for 


THE   CREDITOR  55 

some  time.  No  doubt  about  it.  [He  walks  round  the 
round  table  on  the  right.] 

•Adolf.  [Excitedly.]  Me?  I'd  have  preferred  to  be 
anything  but  that.  I  must  put  matters-  right. 

Gustav.  Don't  you  get*  so  excited,  otherwise  you'll  get 
an  attack  again. 

Adolf.  [After  a  pause.]  Why  doesn't  she  look  ridicu- 
lous when'  I  stay  out  all  night  ? 

Gustav.  Why?  Don't  you  bother  about  that.  That's 
how  the  matter  stands,  and  while  you're  fooling  about 
moping,  the  mischief  is  done.  [He  goes  behind  the  square 
table,  and  walks  behind  the  sofa.] 

Adolf.     What  mischief  ? 

Gustav.  Her  husband,  you  know,  was  a  tyrant,  and 
she  simply  married  him  in  order  to  be  free.  For  what 
other  way  is  there  for  a  girl  to  get  free,  than  by  getting 
the  so-called  husband  to  act  as  cover  ? 

Adolf.     Why,  of  course. 

Gustav.     And  now,  old  man,  you're  the  cover. 

Adolf.    I? 

Gustav.    As  her  husband. 

Adolf.     [Looks  absent.] 

Gustazi,    Am  I  not  right? 

Adolf.  {Uneasily.}  I  don't  know-  [Pause.]  A  man 
lives  for  years  on  end  with  a  woman  without  coming 
to  a  clear  conclusion  about  the  woman  herself,  or  how 
she  stands  in  relation  to  his  own  way  of  looking  at  things. 
And  then  all  of  a  sudden  a  man  begins  to  reflect — and 
then  there's  no  stopping.  Gustav,  old  man,  you're  my 
friend,  the  only  friend  I've  had  for  a  long  time,  and  this 
last  week  you've  given  me  back  all  my  life  and  pluck.  It 
seems  as  though  you'd  radiated  your  magnetism  over  me. 
You  were  the  watchmaker  who  repaired  the  works  in 
my  brain,  and  tightened  the  spring.  [Pause.]  Don't 
you  see  yourself  how  much  more  lucidly  I  think,  how 
much  more  connectedly  I  speak,  and  at  times  it  almost 


56  THE  CREDITOR 

seems  as  though  my  voice  had  got  back  the  timber  it 
used  to  have  in  the  old  days. 

Gustav.     I  think  so,  too.    What  can  be  the  cause  of  it  ? 

Adolf.  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  one  gets  accustomed 
to  talk  more  softly  to  women.  Thekla,  at  any  rate,  was 
always  ragging  me  because  I  shrieked. 

Gustav.  And  then  you  subsided  into  a  minor  key,  and 
allowed  yourself  to  be  put  in  the  corner. 

Adolf.  Don't  say  that.  [Reflectively.]  That  wasn't 
the  worst  of  it.  Let's  talk  of  something  else — where  was 
I  then? — I've  got  it.  [GusxAV'  turns  round  again  at  the 
back  of  the  square  table  and  comes  to  ADOLF  on  his 
right.]  You  came  here,  old  man,  and  opened  my  eyes  to 
the  mysteries  of  my  art.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I've  been 
feeling  for  some  time  that  my  interest  in  painting  was 
lessening,  because  it  didn't  provide  me  with  a  proper  me- 
dium to  express  what  I  had  in  me;  but  when  you  gave 
me  the  reason  for  this  state  of  affairs,  and  explained  to 
me  why  painting  could  not  possibly  be  the  right  form 
for  the  artistic  impulse  of  the  age,  then  I  saw  the  true 
light  and  I  recognized  that  it  would  be  from  now  onward 
impossible  for  me  to  create  in  cplors. 

Gustav.  Are  you  so  certain,  old  man,  that  you  won't 
be  able  to  paint  any  more,  that  you  won't  have  any 
relapse  ? 

Adolf.  Quite.  I  have  tested  myself.  When  I  went  to 
bed  the  evening  after  our  conversation  I  reviewed  your 
chain  of  argument  point  by  point,  and  felt  convinced  that 
it  was  sound.  But  the  next  morning,  when  my  head 
cleared  again,  after  the  night's  sleep,  the  thought  flashed 
through  me  like  lightning  that  you  might  be  mistaken  all 
the  same.  I  jumped  up,  and  snatched  up  a  brush  and 
palette,  in  order  to  paint,  but — just  think  of  it ! — it  was  all 
up.  I  was  no  longer  capable  of  any  illusion.  The  whole 
thing  was  nothing  but  blobs  of  color,  and  I  was  horrified 
at  the  thought  I  could  ever  have  believed  I  could  con- 
vert anyone  else  to  the  belief  that  this  painted  canvas  was 


THE   CREDITOR  57 

anything  else  except  painted  canvas.  The  scales  had  fallen 
from  my  eyes,  and  I  could  as  much  paint  again  as  I  could 
become  a  child  again. 

Gustaz1.  You  realized  then  that  the  real  striving  of  the 
age,  its  aspiration  for  reality,  for  actuality,  can  only  find 
a  corresponding  medium  in  sculpture,  which  gives  bodies 
extension  in  the  three  dimensions. 

Adolf.  [Hesitating.]  The  three  dimensions?  Yes — 
in  a  word,  bodies. 

Gutfav.  And  now  you  want  to  become  a  sculptor? 
That  means  that  you  were  a  sculptor  really  from  the  be- 
ginning ;  you  got  off  the  line  somehow,  so  you  only  needed 
a  guide  to  direct  you  back  again  to  the  right  track.  I 
say,  when  you  work  now,  does  the  great  joy  of  creation 
come  over  you  ? 

Adolf.     Now,  I  live  again. 

Gustav.    May  I  see  what  you're  doing? 

Adolf.  [Undraping  a  figure  on  the  small  table.]  A 
female  figure. 

Gustav.  [Probing.]  Without  a  model,  and  yet  so 
lifelike? 

Adolf.  [Heavily.]  Yes,  but  it  is  like  somebody;  ex- 
traordinary how  this  woman  is  in  me,  just  as  I  am  in  her. 

Gustaru.  That  last  is  not  so  extraordinary — do  you 
know  anything  about  transfusion? 

Adolf.     Blood  transfusion?    Yes. 

Gustav.  It  seems  to  me  that  you've  allowed  your  veins 
to  be  opened  a  bit  too  much.  The  examination  of  this 
figure  clears  up  many  things  which  I'd  previously  only 
surmised.  You  loved  her  infinitely? 

Adolf.  Yes ;  so  much  that  I  could  never  tell  whether 
she  is  I,  or  I  am  her ;  when  she  laughed  I  laughed ;  when 
she  cried  I  cried,  and  when — just  imagine  it — our  child 
came  into  the  world  I  suffered  the  same  as  she  did. 

Gustav.  [Stepping  a  little  to  the  right.]  Look  here, 
old  chap,  I  am  awfully  sorry  to  have  to  tell  you,  but 


58  THE   CREDITOR 

the  symptoms  of  epilepsy  are  already  manifesting  them- 
selves. 

Adolf.     [Crushed.}     In  me?    What  makes  you  say  so ? 

Gustav.  Because  I  watched  these  symptoms  in  a 
younger  brother  of  mine,  who  eventually  died  of  excess. 
[He  sits  down  in  the  armchair  by  the  circular  table.] 

Adolf.  How  did  it  manifest  itself — that  disease,  I 
mean? 

[GUSTAV  gesticulates  vividly;  ADOLF  watches  with 
strained  attention,  and  involuntarily  imitates  GUSTAV'S 
gestures.} 

Gustav.  A  ghastly  sight.  If  you  feel  at  all  off  color, 
I'd  rather  not  harrow  you  by  describing  the  symptoms. 

Adolf.     [Nervously.]     Go  on  ;  go  on. 

Gustav.  Well,  it's  like  this.  Fate  had  given  the  young- 
ster for  a  wife  a  little  innocent,  with  kiss-curls,  dove-like 
eyes,  and  a  baby  face,  from  which  there  spoke  the  pure 
soul  of  an  angel.  In  spite  of  that,  the  little  one  managed 
to  appropriate  the  man's  prerogative. 

Adolf.     What  is  that? 

Gustav.  Initiative,  of  course ;  and  the  inevitable  result 
was  that  the  angel  came  precious  near  taking  him  away 
to  heaven.  He  first  had  to  be  on  the  cross  and  feel 
the  nails  in  his  flesh. 

Adolf.     [Suffocating.]    Tell  me,  what  was  it  like? 

Gustav.  [Slowly.]  There  were  times  when  he  and  I 
would  sit  quite  quietly  by  each  other  and  chat,  and  then — 
I'd  scarcely  been  speaking  a  few  minutes  before  his  face 
became  ashy  white,  his  limbs  were  paralyzed,  and  his 
thumbs  turned  in  towards  the  palm  of  the  hand.  [With 
a  gesture.}  Like  that!  [ADOLF  imitates  the  gesture.} 
And  his  eyes  were  shot  with  blood,  and  he  began  to  chew, 
do  yuu  see,  like  this.  [He  moves  his  lips  as  though  chew-> 
ing;  \DOLF  imitates  him  again.}  The  saliva  stuck  in  his 
throat ;  the  chest  contracted  as  though  it  had  been  com- 
pre?1  od  by  screws  on  a  joiner's  bench  ;  there  was  a  flicker 
in  i\- :  pupils  like  gas  jets;  foam  spurted  from  his  mouth, 


THE   CREDITOR  59 

and  he  sank  gently  back  in  the  chair  as  though  he  were 
drowning.  Then 

Adolf.     [Hissing.]    Stopf 

Gustav.    Then — are  you  unwell  ? 

Adolf.     Yes. 

Gustav.  [Gets  up  and  fetches  a  glass  of  water  front 
the  table  on  the  right  near  the  center  door.}  Here,  drink 
this,  and  let's  change  the  subject. 

Adolf.     [Drinks,  limp.}     Thanks  ;  go  on. 

Gustav.  Good!  When  he  woke  up  he  had  no  idea 
what  had  taken  place.  [He  takes  the  glass  back  to  the 
table.]  He  had  simply  lost  consciousness.  Hasn't  that 
ever  happened  to  you? 

Adolf.  Now  and  again  I  have  attacks  of  dizziness. 
The  doctor  puts  it  down  to  anaemia. 

Gustav.  [On  the  right  of  ADOLF.]  That's  just  how 
the  thing  starts,  mark  you.  Take  it  from  me,  you're  in 
danger  of  contracting  epilepsy ;  if  you  aren't  on  your 
guard,  if  you  don't  live  a  careful  and  abstemious  life,  all 
round. 

Adolf.    What  can  I  do  to  effect  that? 

Gustav.  Above  all,  you  must  exercise  the  most  com- 
plete continence. 

Adolf.     For  how  long? 

Gustav.     Six  months  at  least. 

Adolf.  I  can't  do  it.  It  would  upset  all  our  life  to- 
gether. 

Gustav.    Then  it's  all  up  with  you. 

Adolf.    I  can't  do  it. 

Gustav.  You  can't  save  your  own  life?  But  tell  me, 
as  you've  taken  me  into  your  confidence  so  far,  haven't 
you  any  other  wound  that  hurts  you  ? — some  other  secret 
trouble  in  this  multifarious  life  of  ours,  with  all  its  numer- 
ous opportunities  for  jars  and  complications?  There 
is  usually  more  than  one  motif  which  is  responsible  for 
a  discord.  Haven't  you  got  a  skeleton  in  the  cupboard, 
old  chap,  which  vou  hide  even  from  yourself?  You  told 


60  THE   CREDITOR 

me  a  minute  ago  y^u'd  given  your  child  to  people  to  look 
after.  Why  didn't  you  keep  it  with  you?  [He  goes  be- 
hind the  square  table  on  the  left  and  then  behind  tha 
sofa.] 

Adolf.  [Covers  the  figure  on  the  small  table  with  a 
cloth.}  It  was  my  wife's  wish  to  have  it  nursed  outside 
the  house. 

Gustav.    The  motive?    Don't  be  afraid. 

Adolf.  Because  when  the  kid  was  three  years  old  she 
thought  it  began  to  look  like  her  first  husband. 

Gustav.     Re-a-lly?    Ever  seen  the  first  husband? 

Adolf.  No,  never.  I  just  once  cast  a  cursory  glance 
over  a  bad  photograph,  but  I  couldn't  discover  any 
likeness. 

Gustav.  Oh,  well,  photographs  are  never  like,  and  be- 
sides, his  type  of  face  may  have  changed  with  time.  By 
the  by,  didn't  that  make  you  at  all  jealous? 

Adolf.  Not  a  bit.  The  child  was  born  a  year  after 
our  marriage,  and  the  husband  was  traveling  when  I  met 
Thekla,  here — in  this  watering  place — in  this  very  house. 
That's  why  we  come  here  every  summer. 

Gustav.  Then  all  suspicion  on  your  part  was  out  of 
the  question  ?  But  so  far  as  the  intrinsic  facts  of  the  mat- 
ter are  concerned  you  needn't  be  jealous  at  all,  because  it 
not  infrequently  happens  that  the  children  of  a  widow 
who  marries  again  are  like  the  deceased  husband.  Very 
awkward  business,  no  question  about  it ;  and  that's  why, 
don't  you.  know,  the  widows  are  burned  alive  in  India. 
Tell  me,  now,  didn't  you  ever  feel  jealous  of  him,  of 
the  survival  of  his  memory  in  your  own  self  ?  Wouldn't 
it  have  rather  gone  against  the  grain  if  he  had  just  met 
you  when  you  were  out  for  a  walk,  and,  looking  straight 
at  Thekla,  said  "We,"  instead  of  "I"?  "We." 

Adolf.    I  can't  deny  that  the  thought  has  haunted  me. 

Gustav.  [Sits  down  opposite  ADOLF  on  the  sofa  on 
the  left.}  I  thought  as  much,  and  you'll  never  get  away 
from  it.  There  are  discords  in  life,  you  know,  which 


THE   CREDITOR  61 

never  get  resolved,  so  you  must  stuff  your  ears  with 
wax,  and  work.  Work,  get  older,  and  heap  up  over  the 
coffin  a  mass  of  new  impressions,  and  then  the  corpse 
will  rest  in  peace. 

Adolf.  Excuse  my  interrupting  you — but  it  is  extraor- 
dinary at  times  how  your  way  of  speaking  reminds 
me  of  Thekla.  You've  got  a  trick,  old  man,  of  winking 
with  your  right  eye  as  though  you  were  counting,  and 
your  gaze  has  the  same  power  over  me  as  hers  has. 

Gustav.    No,  really? 

Adolf.  And  now  you  pronounce  your  "No,  really?'* 
in  the  same  indifferent  tone  that  she  does.  "No,  really?" 
is  one  of  her  favorite  expressions,  too,  you  know. 

Gustav.  Perhaps  there  is  a  distant  relationship  be- 
tween us :  all  men  and  women  are  related  of  course.  Any- 
way, there's  no  getting  away  from  the  strangeness  of  it, 
and  it  will  be  interesting  for  me  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  your  wife,  so  as  to  observe  this  remarkable  charac- 
teristic. 

Adolf.  But  just  think  of  this,  she  doesn't  take  a  single 
expression  from  me;  why,  she  seems  rather  to  make  a 
point  of  avoiding  all  my  special  tricks  of  speech ;  all  the 
same,  I  have  seen  her  make  use  of  one  of  my  gestures ; 
but  it  is  quite  the  usual  thing  in  married  life  for  a  hus- 
band and  a  wife  to  develop  the  so-called  marriage  like- 
ness. 

Gustav.  Quite.  But  look  here  now.  [He  stands  up.] 
That  woman  has  never  loved  you. 

Adolf.    Nonsense. 

Gustav.  Pray  excuse  me,  woman's  love  consists  sim- 
ply in  this — in  taking  in,  in  receiving.  She  does  not  love 
the  man  from  whom  she  takes  nothing:  she  has  never 
loved  you.  [He  turns  round  behind  the  square  table  and 
walks  fa  ADOLF'S  right.] 

Adolf.  I  suppose  you  don't  think  that  she'd  be  able 
to  love  more  than  once? 

Gustav.    No.     Once  bit,  twice  shy.     After  the  first 


62  THE   CREDITOR 

time,  one  keeps  one's  eyes  open,  but  you  have  never  been 
really  bitten  yet.  You  be  careful  of  those  who  have ; 
they're  dangerous  customers.  [He  goes  round  the  cir- 
cular table  on  the  right.} 

Adolf.  What  you  say  jabs  a  knife  into  my  flesh.  I've 
got  a  feeling  as  though  something  in  me  were  cut 
through,  but  I  can  do  nothing  to  stop  it  all  by  myself, 
and  it's  as  well  it  should  be  so,  for  abscesses  will  be 
opened  in  that  way  which  would  otherwise  never  be  able 
to  come  to  a  head.  She  never  loved  me  ?  Why  did  she 
marry  me,  then? 

Gustav.  Tell  me  first  how  it  came  about  that  she  did 
marry  you,  and  whether  she  married  you  or  you  her  ? 

Adolf.  God  knows !  That's  much  too  hard  a  question 
to-  be  answered  offhand,  and  how  did  it  take  place  ? — it 
took  more  than  a  day. 

Gustav.  Shall  I  guess?  [He  goes  behind  the  round 
table,  toward  the  left,  atid  sits  on  the  sofa.] 

Adolf.     You'll  get  nothing  for  your  pains. 

Gustav.  Not  so  fast !  From  the  insight  which  you've 
given  me  into  your  own  character,  and  that  of  your  wife, 
I  find  it  pretty  easy  to  work  out  the  sequence  of  the 
whole  thing.  Listen  to  me  and  you'll  be  quite  convinced. 
[Dispassionately  and  in  an  almost  jocular  tone.]  The 
husband  happened  to  be  travelling  on  study  and  she  was 
alone.  At  first  she  found  a  pleasure  in  being  free.  Then 
she  imagined  that  she  felt  the  void,  for  I  presume  that 
she  found  it  pretty  boring  after  being  alone  for  a  fort- 
night. Then  he  turned  up,  and  the  void  begins  grad- 
ually to  be  filled — the  picture  of  the  absent  man  begins 
gradually  to  fade  in  comparison,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  he  is  a  long  way  off — you  know  of  course  the  phy- 
chological  algebra  of  distance  ?  And  when  both  of  them, 
alone  as  they  were,  felt  the  awakening  of  passion,  they 
were  frightened  of  themselves,  of  him,  of  their  own  con- 
science. They  sought  for  protection,  skulked  behind 
the  fig-leaf,  played  at  brother  and  sister,  and  the  more 


THE   CREDITOR  63 

sensual  grew  their  feelings  the  more  spiritual  did  they 
pretend  their  relationship  really  was. 

Adolf.    Brother  and  sister!    How  did  you  know  that? 

Gustav.  I  just  thought  that  was  how  it  was.  Children 
piay  at  mother  and  father,  but  of  course  when  they  grow 
older  they  play  at  brother  and  sister — so  as  to  conceal 
what  requires  concealment ;  they  then  discard  their  chaste 
desires ;  they  play  blind  man's-  buff  till  they've  caught 
each  other  in  some  dark  corner,  where  they're  pretty  sure 
not  to  be  seen  by  anybody.  {With  increased  severity.] 
But  they  are  warned  by  their  inner  consciences  that  an 
eye  sees  them  through  the  darkness.  They  are  afraid— 
and  in  their  panic  the  absent  man  begins  to  haunt  their 
imagination — to  assume  monstrous  proportions — to  be- 
come metamorphosed — he  becomes  a  nightmare  who  op- 
poses them  in  that  love's  young  dream  of  theirs.  He 
becomes  the  creditor  [he  raffs  slowly  on  the  table  three 
times  with  his  finger,  as  though  knocking  at  the  door] 
who  knocks  at  the  door.  They  see  his  black  hand  thrust 
itself  between  them  when  their  own  are  reaching  after 
the  dish  of  pottage.  They  hear  his  unwelcome  voice  in 
the  stillness  of  the  night,  which  is  only  broken  by  the 
beating  of  their  own  pulses.  He  doesn't  prevent  their 
belonging  to  each  other,  but  he  is  enough  to  mar  their 
happiness,  and  when  they  have  felt  this  invisible  power 
of  his,  and  when  at  last  they  want  to  run  away,  and 
make  their  futile  efforts  to  escape  the  memory  which 
haunts  them,  the  guilt  which  they  have  left  behind,  the 
public  opinion  which  they  are  afraid  of,  and  they  lack 
the  strength  to  bear  their  own  guilt,  then  a  scapegoat 
has  to  be  exterminated  and  slaughtered.  They  posed 
as  believers  in  Free  Love,  but  they  didn't  have  the  pluck 
to  go  straight  to  him,  to  speak  straight  out  to  him  and 
say,  "We  love  each  other."  They  were  cowardly,  and 
that's  why  the  tyrant  had  to  be  assassinated.  Am  I 
not  right? 


64  THE   CREDITOR 

Adolf.  Yes;  but  you're  forgetting  that  she  trained 
me,  gave  me  new  thoughts. 

Gustav.  I  haven't  forgotten  it.  But  tell  me,  how  was 
it  that  she  wasn't  able  to  succeed  in  educating  the  other 
man — in  educating  him  into  being  really  modern? 

Adolf.    He  was  an  utter  ass. 

Gustav.  Right  you  are — he  was  an  ass ;  but  that's  3 
fairly  elastic  word,  and  according  to  her  description  of 
him,  in  her  novel,  his  asinine  nature  seemed  to  have  con- 
sisted principally  in  the  fact  that  he  didn't  understand 
her.  Excuse  the  question,  but  is  your  wife  really  as 
deep  as  all  that?  I  haven't  found  anything  particularly 
profound  in  her  writings. 

Adolf.  Nor  have  I.  I  must  really  own  that  I  too  find 
it  takes  me  all  my  time  to  understand  her.  It's  as  though 
the  machinery  of  our  brains  couldn't  catch  on  to  each 
other  properly — as  though  something  in  my  head  got 
broken  when.  I  try  to  understand  her. 

Gustav.     Perhaps  you're  an  ass  as  well. 

Adolf.  No,  I  flatter  myself  I'm  not  that,  and  I  nearly 
always  think  that  she's  in  the  wrong — and,  for  the  sake 
of  argument,  would  you  care  to  read  this  letter  which  I 
got  from  her  to-day?  [He  takes  a  letter  out  of  his 
pocketbook.] 

Gustav.  [Reads  it  cursorily.]  Hum,  I  seem  to-  know 
the  style  so  well. 

Adolf.    Like  a  man's,  almost. 

Gustav.  Well,  at  any  rate,  I  knew  a  man  who  had  a 
style  like  that.  [Standing  up.]  I  see  she  goes  on  calling 
you  brother  all  the  time — do  you  always  keep  up  the 
comedy  for  the  benefit  of  your  two  selves  ?  Do  you  still 
keep  on  using  the  fig  leaves,  even  though  they're  a  trifle 
withered — you  don't  use  any  term  of  endearment? 

Adolf.  No.  In  my  view,  I  couldn't  respect  her  quite 
so  much  if  I  did. 

Gustav.     [Hands  back  the  letter.]     I  see,  and  she  calls 


THE  CREDITOR  65 

herself  "sister"  so  as  to  inspire  respect.  [He  turns  round 
and  passes  the  square  table  on  ADOLF'S  right.] 

Adolf.  I  want  to  esteem  her  more  than  I  do  myself. 
I  want  her  to  be  my  better  self. 

Gustav.  Oh>  you  be  your  better  self;  though  I  quite 
admit  it's  less  convenient  than  having  somebody  else  to 
do  it  for  you.  Do  you  want,  then,  to  be  your  wife's  in- 
ferior ? 

Adolf.  Yes,  I  do.  I  find  pleasure  in  always  allowing 
myself  to  be  beaten  by  her  a  little.  For  instance,  I 
taught  her  swimming,  and  it  amuses  me  when  she  boasts 
about  being  better  and  pluckier  than  I  am.  At  the  be- 
ginning I  simply  pretended  to  be  less  skilful  and  cour- 
ageous than  she  was,  in  order  to  give  her  pluck,  but  one 
day,  God  knows  how  it  came  about,  I  was  actually  the 
worse  swimmer  and  the  one  with  less  pluck.  It  seemed 
as  though  she'd  taken  all  my  grit  away  in  real  earnest. 

Gustav.     And  haven't  you  taught  her  anything  else? 

Adolf.  Yes — but  this  is  in  confidence — I  taught  her 
spelling,  because  she  didn't  know  it.  Just  listen.  When 
she  took  over  the  correspondence  of  the  household  I  gave 
up  writing  letters,  and — will  you  believe  it  ? — simply  from 
lack  of  practice  I've  lost  one  bit  of  grammar  after  an- 
other in  the  course  of  the  year.  But  do  you  think  she 
ever  remembers  that  she  has  to  thank  me  really  for  her 
proficiency?  Not  for  a  minute.  Of  course,  I'm  the 
ass  now. 

Gustav.    Ah!  really?    You're  the  ass  now,  are  you? 

Adolf.     I'm  only  joking,  of  course. 

Gustav.  Obviously.  But  this  is  pure  cannibalism, 
isn't  it?  Do  you  know  what  I  mean?  Well,  the  sav- 
ages devour  their  enemies  so  as  to  acquire  their  best 
qualities.  Well,  this  woman  has  devoured  your  soul, 
your  pluck,  your  knowledge. 

Adolf.  And  my  faith.  It  was  I  who  kept  her  up  to 
the  mark  and  made  her  write  her  first  book. 

Gustav.     [With  facial  expression.}     Re-a-lly? 


66  THE   CREDITOR 

Adolf.  It  was  I  who  fed  her  up  with  praise,  even 
when  I  thought  her  work  was  no  good.  It  was  I  who 
introduced  her  into  literary  sets,  and  tried  to  make  her 
feel  herself  in  clover ;  defended  her  against  criticism  by 
my  personal  intervention.  I  blew  courage  into  her,  kept 
on  blowing  it  for  so  long  that  I  got  out  of  breath  my- 
self. I  gave  and  gave  and  gave — until  nothing  was  left 
for  me  myself.  Do  you  know — I'm  going  to  tell  you 
the  whole  story — do  you  know  how  the  thing  seems  to 
me  now?  One's  temperament  is  such  an  extraordinary 
thing,  and  when  my  artistic  successes  looked  as  though 
they  would  eclipse  her — her  prestige — I  tried  to  buck  her 
up  by  belittling  myself  and  by  representing  that  my  art 
was  one  that  was  inferior  to  hers.  I  talked  so  much  of 
the  general  insignificant  role  of  my  particular  art,  and 
harped  on  it  so  much,  thought  of  so  many  good  reasons 
for  my  contention,  that  one  fine  day  I  myself  was  soaked 
through  and  through  with  the  worthlessness  of  the  paint- 
er's art;  so  all  that  was  left  was  a  house  of  cards  for 
you  to  blow  down. 

Gustav.  Excuse  my  reminding  you  of  what  you  said, 
but  at  the  beginning  of  our  conversation  you  were  assert- 
ing that  she  took  nothing  from  you. 

Adolf.  She  doesn't — now,  at  any  rate;  now  there  is 
nothing  left  to  take. 

Gustav.  So  the  snake  has  gorged  herself,  and  now 
she  vomits. 

Adolf.  Perhaps  she  took  more  from  me  than  I  knew 
of. 

Gustav.  Oh,  you  can  reckon  on  that  right  enough — 
she  took  without  your  noticing  it.  [He  goes  behind  the 
square  table  and  comes  in  front  of  the  sofa.]  That's 
what  people  call  stealing. 

Adolf.  Then  what  it  conies  to  is  that  she  hasn't  edu- 
cated me  at  all? 

Gustav.    Rather  you  her.     Of  course  she  knew  the 


THE   CREDITOR  67 

trick  well  enough  of  making-  you  believe  the  contrary. 
Might  I  ask  how  she  pretended  to  educate  you? 

Adolf.     Oh— at  first— hum ! 

Gustav.    Well?     [He  leans  his  arms  on  the  table.] 

Adolf.    Well,  I 

Gustav.    No ;  it  was  sht — she. 

Adolf.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  couldn't  say  which  it 
was. 

Gustav.    You  see. 

Adolf.  Besides,  she  destroyed  my  faith  as  well,  and 
so  I  went  backward  until  you  came,  old  chap,  and  gave 
me  a  new  faith. 

Gustav.  [He  laughs.]  In  sculpture?  [He  turns 
rmtnd  by  the  square  table  and  comes  to  ADOLF'S  right.] 

Adolf.     [Hesitating.]     Yes. 

Gustav.  And  you  believed  in  it? — in-  that  abstract, 
obsolete  art  from  the  childhood  of  the  world.  Do  you 
believe  that  by  means  of  pure  form  and  three  dimensions 
— no,  you  don't  really — that  you  can  produce  an  effect 
on  the  real  spirit  of  this  age  of  ours,  that  you  can  create 
illusions  without  color?  Without  color,  I  say.  Do  you 
believe  that? 

Adolf.     [Tonelessly.]     No. 

Gustav.     Nor  do  I. 

Adolf.    But  why  did  you  say  you  did? 

Gusfav.    You  make  me  pity  you. 

Adolf.  Yes,  I  am  indeed  to  be  pitied.  And  now  I'm 
bankrupt,  absolutely — and  the  worst  of  it  is  I  haven't 
got  her  any  more. 

Gustav.  [With  a  few  steps  toward  the  right.]  What 
good  would  she  be  to  you?  She  would  be  what  God 
above  was  to  me  before  I  became  an  atheist — a  subject 
on  which  I  could  lavish  my  reverence.  You  keep  your 
feeling  of  reverence  dark,  and  let  something  else  grow 
on  top  of  it — a  healthy  contempt,  for  instance. 

Adolf.    I  can't  live  without  someone  to  reverence. 


68  THE  CREDITOR 

Gustav.  Slave!  [He  goes,  round  the  fable  on  the 
right.] 

Adolf.  And  without  a  woman  to  reverence,  to  wor- 
ship. 

Gustav.  Oh,  the  deuce!  Then  you  go-  back  to  that 
God  of  yours — if  you.  really  must  have  something  on 
which  you  can  crucify  yourself ;  but  you  call  yourself 
an  atheist  when  you've  got  the  superstitious  belief  in 
women  in  your  own  blood ;  you  call  yourself  a  free 
thinker  when  you  can't  think  freely  about  a  lot  of  silly 
women.  Do  you  know  what  all  this  illusive  quality, 
this  sphinx-like  mystery,  this  profundity  in  your  wife's 
temperament  all  really  comes  to?  The  whole  thing  is 
sheer  stupidity;  why,  the  woman  can't  distinguish  be- 
tween A.B.  and  a  bull's  foot  for  the  life  of  her.  And 
look  here,  it's  something  shoddy  in  the  mechanism,  that's 
where  the  fault  lies.  Outside  it  looks  like  a  fifty-guinea 
hunting  watch,  open  it  and  you  find  it's  tuppenny-half- 
penny gun-metal.  [He  comes  up  to  ADOLF.]  Put  her 
in  trousers,  draw  a  mustache  under  her  nose  with  a 
piece  of  coal,  and  then  listen  to  her  in  the  same  state 
of  mind,  and  then  you'll  be  perfectly  convinced  that  it 
is  quite  a  different  kettle  of  fish  altogether — a  gramo- 
phone which  reproduces,  with  rather  less  volume,  your 
words  and  other  people's  words.  Do  you  know  how  a 
woman  is  constituted?  Yes,  of  course  you  do.  A  boy 
with  the  breasts  of  a  mother,  an  immature  man,  a  pre- 
cocious child  whose  growth  has  been  stunted,  a  chron- 
ically anaemic  creature  that  has  a  regular  emission  of 
blood  thirteen  times  in  the  year.  What  can  you  do  with 
a  thing  like  that? 

Adolf.  Yes — but — but  then  how  can  I  believe — that 
we  are  really  on  an  equality? 

Gustav.  [Moves  afwy  from,  Mm  dgain  toward  the 
right.]  Sheer  hallucination!  The  fascination  of  the 
petticoat.  But  it  is  so ;  perhaps,  in  fact  you  have  become 
like  each  other,  the  levelling  has  taken  place.  But  I  say. 


THE   CREDITOR  69 

[He  takes  out  his  watch.]  We've  been  chatting  for  quite 
long  enough.  Your  wife's  bound  to  be  here  shortly. 
Wouldn't  it  be  better  to  leave  off  now,  so  that  you  can 
rest  for  a  little?  [He  comes  nearer-  and  holds  out  his 
hand  to  say  good-bye.  ADOLF  grips  his  hand  all  the 
tighter.] 

Adolf.  No,  don't  leave  me.  I  haven't  got  the  pluck 
to  be  alone. 

Gustav.  Only  for  a  little  while.  Your  wife  will  be 
coming  in  a  minute. 

Adolf.  Yes,  yes — she's  coming.  [Pause.]  Strange, 
isn't  it?  I  long  for  her  and  yet  I'm  frightened  of  her. 
She  caresses  me,  she  is  tender,  but  her  kisses  have  some- 
thing in  them  which  smothers  one,  something  which 
sucks,  something  which  stupefies.  It  is  as  though  I 
were  the  child  at  the  circus  whose  face  the  clown  is 
making  up  in  the  dressing-room,  so  that  it  can  appear 
red-cheeked  before  the  public. 

Gustav.  [Leaning  on  the  arm  of  ADOLF'S  chair.']  I'm 
sorry  for  you,  old  man.  Although  I'm  not  a  doctor,  I  am 
in  a  position  to  tell  you  that  you  are  a  dying  man.  One 
has  only  to  look  at  your  last  pictures  to  be  quite  clear 
on  the  point. 

Adolf.    What  da  you  say — what  do  you  mean? 

Gustav.  Your  coloring  is  so  watery,  so  consumptive 
and  thin,  that  the  yellow  of  the  canvas  shines  through. 
It  is  just  as  though  your  hollow,  ashen,  white  cheeks 
were  looking  out  at  me. 

Adolf.    Ah ! 

Gustav.  Yes',  and  that's  not  only  my  view.  Haven't 
you  read  to-day's  paper  ? 

Adolf.     [He  starts.]     No. 

Gustav.    It's  before  you  on  the  table. 

Adolf.  [He  gropes  after  the  paper  without  having  the 
courage  to  take  it.]  Is  it  in  here? 

Gustav.    Read  it,  or  shall  I  read  it  to  you  ? 

Adolf.    No. 


70  THE  CREDITOR 

Gustav.     [Turns  to  leave.]     If  you  prefer  it,  I'll  go. 

Adolf.  No,  no,  no!  I  don't  know  how  it  is — I  think 
I  am  beginning  to  hate  you,  but  all  the  same  I  can't  do 
without  your  being  near  me.  You  have  helped  to  drag 
me  out  of  the  slough  which  I  was  in,  and,  as  luck  would 
have  it,  I  just  managed  to  work  my  way  clear  and  then 
you  knocked  me  on  the  head  and  plunged  me  in  again. 
As  long  as  I  kept  my  secrets  to  myself  I  still  had  some 
guts — now  I'm  empty.  There's  a  picture  by  an  Italian 
master  that  describes-  a  torture  scene.  The  entrails  are 
dragged  out  of  a  saint  by  means  of  a  windlass.  The 
martyr  lies  there  and  sees  himself  getting  continually 
thinner  and  thinner,  but  the  roll  on  the  windlass  always 
gets  perpetually  fatter,  and  so  it  seems  to-  me  that  you 
get  stronger  since  you've  taken  me  up.  and  that  you're 
taking  away  now  with  you,  as  you  go,  my  innermost 
essence,  the  core  of  my  character,  and  there's  nothing 
left  of  me  but  an  empty  husk. 

Gustav.  Oh,  what  fantastic  notions;  besides,  your 
wife  is  coming  back  with  your  heart. 

Adolf.  No;  no  longer,  after  you  have  burnt  it  for 
me.  You  have  passed  through  me,  changing  everything 
in  your  track  to  ashes — my  art,  my  love,  my  hope,  my 
faith. 

Gustav.  [Comes  near  tcr  him  again?.]  Were  you  so 
splendidly  off  before? 

Adolf.  No,  I  wasn't,  but  the  situation  might  have 
been  been  saved,  now  it's  too  late.  Murderer! 

Gustav.  We've  wasted  a  little  time.  Now  we'll  do 
some  sowing  in  the  ashes. 

Adolf.    I  hate  you !    I  curse  you ! 

Gustav.  A  healthy  symptom.  You've  still  got  some 
strength,  and  now  I'll  screw  up  your  machinery  again.  I 
say.  [He  goes  behind-  the  square  table  on  the  left  and 
comes  in  front  of  the  sofa.}  Will  you  listen  to  me  and 
obey  me  ? 

Adolf.     Do  what  you  will  with  me,  I'll  obey. 


THE   CREDITOR  71 

Gustav.    Look  at  me. 

Adolf.  [Looks  him  in  the  face.]  And  now  you  look 
at  me  again  with  that  other  expression  in  those  eyes  of 
yours,  which  draws  me  to  you  irresistibly. 

Gustav.    Now  listen  to  me. 

Adolf.  Yes,  but  speak  of  yourself.  Don't  speak  any 
more  of  me :  it's  as  though  I  were  wounded,  every  move- 
ment hurts  me. 

Gustav-.  Oh,  no,  there  isn't  much  to  say  about  me, 
don't  you  know.  I'm  a  private  tutor  in  dead  languages 
and  a  widower,  that's  all.  [He  goes  in  front  of  the 
table.]  Hold  my  hand.  [ADOLF  does  so.] 

Adolf.  What  awful  strength  you  must  have,  it  seems 
as  though  a  fellow  were  catching  hold  of  an  electric 
battery. 

Gustav.  And  just  think,  I  was  once  quite  as  weak  as 
you  are.  [Sternly.]  Get  up. 

Adolf.  [Gets  up.]  I  am  like  a  child  without  any 
bones,  and  my  brain  is  empty. 

Gustav.    Take  a  walk  through  the  room. 

Adolf.    I  can't. 

Gustav.    You  must ;  if  you  don't  I'll  hit  you. 

Adolf.     [Stands  up.]    What  do  you  say  ? 

Gustav.     I've  told  you — I'll  hit  you. 

Adolf.  [Jumps'-  back  t&  the  circular  fable  on  the  right, 
beside  li  im  self.  ]  You ! 

Gustav.  [Follows  him.]  Fravo!  That's  driven  the 
blood  to  your  head,  and  wakened  up  your  self-respect. 
Now  I'll  give  you  an  electric  shock.  Where's  your  wife? 

Adolf.     Where's  my  wife? 

Gustaz'.    Yes. 

Adolf.    At — a  meeting. 

Gustav.     Certain  ? 

Adolf.    Absolutely. 

Gustav.    What  kind  of  a  meeting? 

Adolf.     An  orphan  association. 

Gustav.    Did  you  part  friends? 


72  THE   CREDITOR 

Adolf.     [Hesitating.}     Not  friends. 

Gustav.  Enemies,  then?  What  did  you  say  to  make 
her  angry? 

Adolf.  You're  terrible.  I'm  frightened  of  you.  How 
did  you  manage  to  know  that  ? 

Gustav.  I've  just  got  three  known  quantities,  and  by 
their  help  I  work  out  the  unknown.  What  did  you  say 
to  her,  old  chap? 

Adolf.  I  said — only  two  words — but  two  awful  words. 
I  regret  them — I  regret  them. 

Gustav.    You  shouldn't  do  that.    Well,  speak! 

Adolf.    I  said,  "Old  coquette." 

Gustos*.    And  what  else? 

Adolf.    I  didn't  say  anything  else. 

Gustav.  Oh  yes,  you  did ;  you've  only  forgotten  it. 
Perhaps  because  you  haven't  got  the  pluck  to  remember 
it.  You've  locked  it  up  in  a  secret  pigeonhole;  open  it. 

Adolf.    I  don't  remember. 

Gustav.  But  I  know  what  it  was — the  sense  was 
roughly  this:  "You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself 
to  be  always  flirting  at  your  age.  You're  getting  too  old 
to  find  any  more  admirers." 

Adolf.  Did  I  say  that — possibly?  How  did  you  man- 
age to  know  it? 

Gustav.  On  my  way  here  I  heard  her  tell  the  story  on 
the  steamer. 

Adolf.    To  whom  ? 

Gustav.  [Walks  up  and  d'own  on  the  left.]  To  four 
boys,  whom  she  happened  to  be  with.  She  has  a  craze 
for  pure  boys,  just  like 

Adolf.    A  perfectly  innocent  penchant. 

Gustav.    Quite  as  innocent  as  playing  brother  and  sis- 
ter when  one  is  father  and  mother. 
•    Adolf.    You  saw  her,  then? 

Gustav.  Yes,  of  course ;  but  you've  never  seen  her  if 
you  didn't  see  her  then — I  mean  ,if  you  weren't  present 
— and  that's  the  reason,  don't  you  know,  why  a  husband 


THE.  CREDITOR  73 

can  never  know  his  wife.    Have  you  got  her  photograph  ? 

Adolf.  [Takes  a  photo  out  of  his  pocketbook.]  [In- 
quisitively.] Here  you  are. 

Gustcev.  [Takes*  it.]  Were  you  present  when  it  was 
taken  ? 

Adolf.    No. 

Gustav.  Just  look  at  it.  Is  it  like  the  portrait  you 
painted?  No,  the  features  are  the  same,  but  the  expres- 
sion is  different.  But  you  don't  notice  that,  because  you 
insist  on  seeing  in  it  the  picture  of  her  which  you've 
painted.  Now  look  at  this  picture  as  a  painter,  without 
thinking  of  the  original.  What  does  it  represent?  I 
can  see  nothing  but  a  tricked-out  flirt,  playing  the  decoy. 
Observe  the  cynical  twist  in  the  mouth,  which  you  never 
managed  to  see.  You  see  that  her  look  is  seeking  a  man 
quite  different  from  you.  Observe  the  dress  is  decollete, 
the  coiffure  titivated  to  the  last  degree,  the  sleeves  finish 
high  up-.  You  see? 

Adolf.    Yes,  now  I  see. 

Gustav.    Be  careful,  my  boy. 

Adolf.    Of  what? 

Gustav.  [Gives  him  back  the  portrait.]  Of  her  re- 
venge. Don't  forget  that  by  saying  she  was  no  longer 
attractive  to  men  you  wounded  her  in  the  one  thing 
which  she  took  most  seriously.  If  you'd  called  her  lit- 
erary works  twaddle  she'd  have  laughed,  and  pitied  your 
bad  taste,  but  now — take  it  from  me — if  she  hasn't 
avenged  herself  already,  it's  not  her  fault. 

Adolf.  I  must  be  clear  on  that  point.  [He  goes  over 
to  GUSTAV,  and  sits  down  in  his  previous  place.  GUSTAV 
approaches  him.] 

Gustav.    Find  out  yourself. 

Adolf.     Find  out  myself? 

Gustav.    Investigate.     I'll  help  you,  if  you  like. 

Adolf.  [After  a  pause.]  Good.  Since  I've  been  con- 
demned to  death  once — so  be  it — sooner  or  later  it's  all 
the  same  what's  to  happen. 


74  THE   CREDITOR 

Gustarv.  One  question  first.  Hasn't  your  wife  got  just 
one  weak  point  ? 

Adolf.  Not  that  I  know  of.  [ADOLF  goes'  to  the  open 
door  in  the  center.]  Yes.  You  can  hear  the  steamer  in 
the  Sound  now — she'll  be  here  soon.  And  I  must  go 
down  to  meet  her. 

Gustav.  [Holding  him  back.]  No,  stay  here.  Be 
rude  to  her.  If  she's  got  a  good  conscience  she'll  let  you 
have  it  so  hot  and  strong  that  you  won't  know  where 
you  are.  But  if  she  feels  guilty  she'll  come  and  caress 
you. 

Adolf.    Are  you  so  sure  of  it? 

Gustav.  Not  absolutely.  At  times  a  hare  goes  back  in 
its  tracks,  but  I'm  not  going  to  let  this  one  escape  me. 
My  room  is  just  here.  [Points  to  the  door  on  the  right 
and  goes  behind  ADOLF'S  chair.]  I'll  keep  this  position, 
and  be  on  the  lookout,  while  you  play  your  game  here, 
and  when  you've  played  it  to  the  end  we'll  exchange 
parts.  I'll  go  in  the  cage  and  leave  myself  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  the  snake,  and  you  can  stand  at  the  keyhole. 
Afterward  we'll  meet  in  the  park  and  compare  notes. 
But  pull  yourself  together,  old  man,  and  if  you  show 
weakness  I'll  knock  on  the  floor  twice  with  a  chair. 

Adolf.  [Getting  up.]  Right.  But  don't  go  away:  I 
must  know  that  you're  in  the  next  room. 

Gustav.  You  can  trust  me  for  that.  But  be  careful 
you  aren't  afraid  when  you  see  later  on  how  I  can  dis- 
sect a  human  soul  and  lay  the  entrails  here  on  the  table. 
It  may  seem  a  bit  uncanny  to  beginners,  but  if  you've 
seen  it  done  once  you  don't  regret  it.  One  thing  more, 
don't  say  a  word  that  you've  met  me,  or  that  you  have 
made  any  acquaintance  during  her  absence — not  a  word. 
I'll  ferret  out  her  weak  point  myself.  Hush !  She's  al- 
ready up  there  in  her  room.  She's  whistling — then  she's 
in  a  temper.  Now  stick  to  it.  [He  points  to  the  left.] 
And  sit  here  on  this  chair,  then  she'll  have  to  sit  there 


THE   CREDITOR  75 

[he  points  to  the  sofa  on  the  left],  and  I  can  keep  you 
both  in  view  at  the  same  time. 

Adolf.  We've  still  got  an  hour  before  dinner.  There 
are  no  new  visitors,  for  there  has  been  no  bell  to  an- 
nounce them.  We'll  be  alone  together — more's  the  pity ! 

Gustav.    You  seem  pretty  limp.    Are  you  unwell? 

Adolf.  I'm  all  right ;  unless,  you  know,  I'm  frightened 
of  what's  going  to  happen.  But  I  can't  help  its  happen- 
ing. The  stone  rolls,  but  it  was  not  the  last  drop  of 
water  that  made  it  roll,  nor  yet  the  first — everything 
taken  together  brought  it  about. 

Gustav.  Let  it  roll,  then ;  it  won't  have  any  peace  un- 
til it  does.  Good-bye,  for  the  time  being. 

[Exit  on  the  right.  ADOLF  nods  to  him,  stands  up  for 
a  short  time,  looking  at  the  photograph,  tears  it  to  pieces, 
and  throws  the  fragments  behind  the  circular  table  on 
the  right;  he  then  sits  down  in  his  previous  place,  ner- 
vously arranges  his  tie,  runs  his  fingers  through  his  hair, 
fumbles  with  the  lapels  of  his  coat,  etc.  THEKLA  enters 
on  the  left.] 

SCENE  II 

Thekla.  [Frank,  cheerful  and  engaging,  goes  straight 
up  to  her  husband  and  kisses  him.]  Good-day,  little 
brother;  how  have  you  been  getting  on?  [She  stands 
on  his  left.] 

Adolf.  [Half  overcome  but  jocularly  resisting.]  What 
mischief  have  you  been  up  to,  for  you  to  kiss  me  ? 

Thekla.  Yes,  let  me  just  confess.  Something  very 
naughty — I've  spent  an  awful  lot  of  money. 

Adolf.    Did  you  have  a  good  time,  then  ? 

Thekla.  Excellent.  [She  goes  to  his  right.]  But  not 
at  the  Congress.  It  was  as  dull  as  ditch-water,  don't  you 
know.  But  how  has  little  brother  been  passing  the  time, 
when  his  little  dove  had  flown  away?  [She  looks  round 
the  room,  as  though  looking  for  somebody  or  scenting 


;6  THE  CREDITOR 

something,  and  thus  comes  behind  the  sofa  on  the 
left.} 

Adolf.    Oh,  the  time  seemed  awfully  long. 

Thekla.    Nobody  to  visit  you? 

Adolf.  Not  a  soul.  [THEKLA  looks  him  up  and  down 
and  sits  down  on  the  sofa.] 

Thekla.    Who  sat  here? 

Adolf.    Here?    No  one. 

Thekla.  Strange!  The  sofa  is  as  warm  as  anything, 
and  there's  the  mark  of  an  elbow  in  the  cushion.  Have 
you  had  a  lady  visitor?  [She  stands  up.] 

Adolf.    Me?    You're  not  serious. 

Thekla.  [Turns  away  from  the  square  table  and  comes 
to  ADOLF'S  right.]  How  he  blushes !  So  the  little  brother 
wants  to  mystify  me  a  bit,  does  he?  Well,  let  him 
come  here  and  confess  what  he's  got  on  his  conscience  to 
his  little  wife.  [She  draws  him  to  her.  ADOLF  lets  his 
head  sink  on  her  breast;  laughing.] 

Adolf.    You're  a  regular  devil,  do  you  know  that? 

Thekla.    No,  I  know  myself  so  little. 

Adolf.     Do  you  never  think  about  yourself? 

Thekla.  [Looking  in  the  air,  while  she  looks  at  him 
searchingly.]  About  myself?  I  only  think  about  my- 
self. I  am  a  shocking  egoist,  but  how  philosophical 
you've  become,  my  dear. 

Adolf.    Put  your  hand  on  my  forehead. 

Thekla.  [Playfully.]  Has  he  got  bees  in  his  bonnet 
again?  Shall  I  drive  them  away?  [She  kisses  him  on 
the  forehead.]  There,  it's  all  right  now?  [Pause,  mov- 
ing away  from  him  to  the  right.]  Now  let  me  hear  what 
he's  been  doing  to  amuse  himself.  Painted  anything 
pretty  ? 

Adolf.     No;  I've  given  up  painting. 

Thekla.    What,  you've  given  up  painting! 

Adolf.  Yes,  but  don't  scold  me  about  it.  How  could 
I  help  it  if  I  wasn't  able  to  paint  any  more? 

Thekla.    What  are  you  going  to  take  up  then? 


THE  CREDITOR  77 

'Adolf.  I'm  going  to  be  a  sculptor.  [THEKLA  passes 
over  in  front  of  the  square  table  and  in  front  of  the 
sofa.]  Yes,  but  don't  blame  me — just  look  at  this  figure. 

Thekla.  [Undrapes  the  figure  on  the  table.]  Hello,  I 
say!  Who's  this  meant  to  be? 

Adolf.    Guess ! 

Thekla.  [Tenderly.]  Is  it  meant  to  be  his  little  wife? 
And  he  isn't  ashamed  of  it,  is  he? 

Adolf.    Hasn't  he  hit  the  mark? 

Thekla.  How  can  I  tell? — the  face  is  lacking.  [She 
drapes  the  figure.] 

Adolf.    Quite  so—but  all  the  rest?    Nice? 

Thekla.  [Taps  him  caressingly  on  the  cheek.]  Will 
he  shut  up?  Otherwise  I'll  kiss  him.  [She  goes  behind 
him;  ADOLF  defending  himself.] 

Adolf.    Look  out,  look  out,  anybody  might  come. 

Thekla.  [Nestling  close  to  him.]  What  do  I  care! 
I'm  surely  allowed  to  kiss  my  own  husband.  That's  only 
my  legal  right. 

Adolf.  Quite  so ;  but  do  you  know  the  people  here  in 
the  hotel  take  the  view  that  we're  not  married  because  we 
kiss  each  other  so  much,  and  our  occasional  quarrelling 
makes  them  all  the  more  cocksure  about  it,  because  lov- 
ers usually  carry  on  like  that. 

Thekla.  But  need  there  be  any  quarrels?  Can't  he 
always  be  as  sweet  and  good  as  he  is  at  present?  Let 
him  tell  me.  Wouldn't  he  like  it  himself?  Wouldn't 
he  like  us  to  be  happy  ? 

Adolf.    I  should  like  it,  but 

Thekla.  [With  a  step  to  the  right.]  Who  put  it  into 
his  head  not  to  paint  any  more? 

Adolf.  You're  always  scenting  somebody  behind  me 
and  my  thoughts.  You're  jealous. 

Thekla.  I  certainly  am.  I  was  always  afraid  someone 
might  estrange  you  from  me. 

Adolf.     You're  afraid  of  that,  you  say,  though  you 


78  THE  CREDITOR 

know  very  well  that  there  isn't  a  woman  living  who  can 
supplant  you — that  I  can't  live  without  you. 

Thekla.  I  wasn't  frightened  the  least  bit  of  females. 
It  was  your  friends  I  was  afraid  of:  they  put  all  kinds 
of  ideas  into  your  head. 

Adolf.  [Probing.}  So  you  were  afraid?  What  were 
you  afraid  of? 

Thekla.    Someone  has  been  here.    Who  was  it? 

Adolf.    Can't  you  stand  my  looking  at  you? 

Thekla.  Not  in  that  way.  You  aren't  accustomed  to 
look  at  me  like  that. 

Adolf.    How  am  I  looking  at  you  then? 

Thekla'.    You  are  spying  underneath  your  eyelids. 

Adolf.  Right  through.  Yes,  I  want  to  know  what  it's 
like  inside. 

Thekla.  I  don't  mind.  As  you  like.  I've  nothing  to 
hide,  but — your  very  manner  of  speaking  has  changed — 
you  employ  expressions.  [Probing.]  You  philosophize. 
Eh?  [She  goes  toward  him  in  a  menacing  manner.] 
Who  has  been  here  ? 

Adolf.    My  doctor — nobody  else. 

Thekla.    Your  doctor!    What  doctor? 

Adolf.    The  doctor  from  Stromastad. 

Thekla.     What's  his  name? 

Adolf.     Sjoberg. 

Thekla.    What  did  he  say? 

Adolf.  Well — he  said,  among  other  things — that  I'm 
pretty  near  getting  epilepsy. 

Thekla.  [With  a  step  to  the  right.]  Among  other 
things!  What  else  did  he  say? 

Adoif.    Oh,  something  extremely  unpleasant. 

Thekla.     Let  me  hear  it. 

Adolf.  He  forbade  us  to  live  together  as  man  and 
wife  for  some  time. 

Thekla.  There  you  are.  I  thought  as  much.  They 
want  to  separate  us.  I've  already  noticed  it  for  some 


THE   CREDITOR  79 

time.     [She  goes  round  the   circular  table    toward  the 
right.] 

Adolf.  There  was  nothing1  for  you  to  notice.  There 
was  never  the  slightest  incident  of  that  description. 

Thekla.    What  do  you  mean? 

Adolf.  How  could  it  have  been  possible  for  you  to 
have  seen  something-  which  wasn't  there  if  your  fear 
hadn't  heated  your  imagination  to  so  violent  a  pitch  that 
you  saw  what  never  existed  ?  As  a  matter  of  fact,  what 
were  you  afraid  of  ?  That  I  might  borrow  another's  eyes 
so  as  to  see  you  as  you  really  were,  not  as  you  appeared 
to  me? 

Thekla.  Keep  your  imagination  in  check,  Adolf.  Im- 
agination is  the  beast  in  the  human  soul. 

Adolf.  Where  did  you  get  this  wisdom  from  ?  From 
the  pure  youths  on  the  steamer,  eh  ? 

Thekla.  [Without  losing  her  self-possession.]  Cer- 
tainly— even  youth  can  teach  one  a  great  deal. 

Adolf.  You  seem  for  once  in  a  way,  to  be  awfully 
keen  on  youth? 

Thekla.  [Standing  by  the  door  in  the  center.]  I  have 
always  been  so,  and  that's  how  it  came  about  that  I  loved 
you.  Any  objection? 

Adolf.  Not  at  all.  But  I  should  very  much  prefer  to 
be  the  only  one. 

Thekla.  [Coming  forward  on  his  right,  and  joking  as 
though  speaking  to  a  child.]  Let  the  little  brother  look 
here.  I've  got  such  a  large  heart  that  there  is  room  in  it 
for  a  great  many,  not  only  for  him. 

Adolf.  But  little  brother  doesn't  want  to  know  any- 
thing about  the  other  brothers. 

Thekla.  Won't  he  just  come  here  and  let  himself  be 
teased  by  his  little  woman,  because  he's  jealous — no,  en- 
vious is  the  right  word.  [Two  knocks  with  a  chair  are 
heard,  from  the  room  on  the  right.] 

Adolf.  No,  I  don't  want  to  fool  about,  I  want  to  speak 
seriously. 


8o  THE   CREDITOR 

Thekla*  [As  though  speaking  to  a  child.]  Good  Lord ! 
he  wants  to  speak  seriously.  Upon  my  word !  Has  the 
man  become  serious  for  once  in  his  life?  [Comes  on 
his  left,  takes  hold  of  his  head  and  kisses  him.]  Won't 
he  laugh  now  a  little?  [ADOLF  lawghs.] 

Thekla.    There,  there! 

Adolf.  {Laughs  involuntarily.]  You  damned  witch, 
you !  I  really  believe  you  can  bewitch  people. 

Thekla.  {Comes  in  front  of  the  sofa.]  He  can  see 
for  himself,  and  that's  why  he  mustn't  worry  me,  other- 
wise I  shall  certainly  bewitch  him. 

Adolf.  [Springs  up.]  Thekla!  Sit  for  me  a  minute 
in  profile,  and  I'll  do  the  face  for  your  figure. 

Thekla.  With  pleasure.  [She  turns  her  profile  toward 
him.] 

Adolf.  [Sits  down,  fixe-s  her  with  his  eyes  and  acts 
as  though  he  were  modelling.]  Now,  don't  think  of  me, 
think  of  somebody  else. 

Thekla.    I'll  think  of  my  last  conquest. 

Adolf.    The  pure  youth  ? 

Thekla.  Quite  right.  He  had  the  duckiest,  sweetest 
little  mustache,  and  cheeks  like  cherries,  so  delicate  and 
soft,  one  could  have  bitten  right  into  them. 

Adolf.  [Depressed.]  Just  keep  that  twist  in  your 
mouth. 

Thekla.    What  twist? 

Adolf.  That  cynical,  insolent  twist  which  I've  never 
seen  before. 

Thekla.     [Makes  a  grimace.}     Like  that? 

Adolf.  Quite.  {He  gets  up.]  Do  you  know  how  Bret 
Harte  describes  the  adulteress? 

Thekla.  [Laughs.]  No,  I've  never  read  that  Bret 
What-do-you-call-him. 

Adolf.    Oh !  she's  a  pale  woman-  who  never  blushes. 

Thekla.  Never?  Oh  yes,  she  does;  oh  yes,  she  does. 
Perhaps  when  she  meets  her  lover,  even  though  her  hus- 
band and  Mr.  Bret  didn't  manage  to  see  anything  of  it. 


THE   CREDITOR  8r 

'Adolf.    Are  you  so  certain,  about  it  ? 

Thekla.  [As  before.]  Absolutely.  If  the  man  isn't 
able  to  drive  her  very  blood  to  her  head,  how  can  he 
possibly  enjoy  the  pretty  spectacle?  [She  passes  by  him 
toward  the  right.] 

Adolf.    [Reiving.]    Thekla!    Thekla! 

Thekla.     Little  fool! 

Adolf.     [Sternly.]     Thekla! 

Thekla.  Let  him  call  me  his  own  dear  little  sweet- 
heart, and  I'll  get  red  all  over  before  him,  shall  I? 

Adolf.  [Disarmed.]  I'm  so  angry  with  you,  you 
monster,  that  I  should  like  to  bite  you.  [He  comes 
nearer  to  her.] 

Thekla.  [Playing  with  him.]  Well,  come  and  bite 
me;  come.  [She  holds  out  her  arms  toward  him.] 

Adolf.  [Takes  her  by  the  neck  and  kisses  her.]  Yes, 
my  dear,  I'll  bite  you  so  that  you  die. 

Thekla.  [Joking.]  Look  out,  somebody  might  come. 
[She  goes  to  the  fireplace  on  the  right  and  leans  on  the 
chimney  piece.  ] 

Adolf.  Oh,  what  do  I  care  if  they  do?  I  don't  care 
about  anything  in  the  whole  world  so  long  as  I  have  you. 

Thekla.    And  if  you  don't  have  me  any  more? 

Adolf.  [Sinks  down  on  the  chair  on  the  left  in  front 
of  the  circular  table.]  Then  I  die! 

Thekla.  All  right,  you  needn't  be  frightened  of  that 
the  least  bit :  I'm  already  much  too  old,  you  see,  for  any- 
body to  like  me. 

Adolf.  You  haven't  forgotten  those  words  of  mine  ? — 
I  take  them  back. 

Thekla.  Can  you  explain  to  me  why  it  is  that  you're 
so  jealous,  and  at  the  same  time  so  sure  of  yourself? 

Adolf.  No,  I  can't  explain  it,  but  it  may  be  that  the 
thought  that  another  man  has  possessed  you,  gnaws  and 
consumes  me.  It  seems  to  me  at  times  as  though  our 
whole  love  were  a  figment  of  the  brain — a  passion  that 
had  turned  into  a  formal  matter  of  honor.  I  know 


82  THE   CREDITOR 

nothing  which  would  be  more  intolerable  for  me  to 
bear,  than  for  him  to  have  the  satisfaction  of  making 
me  unhappy.  Ah,  I've  never  seen  him,  but  the  very 
thought  that  there  is  such  a  man  who  watches  in  secret 
for  my  unhappiness,  who  conjures  down  on  me  the  curse 
of  heaven  day  by  day,  who  would  laugh  and  gloat  over 
my  fall — the  very  idea  of  the  thing  lies  like  a  nightmare 
on  my  breast,  drives  me  to  you,  holds  me  spellbound, 
cripples  me. 

Thekla.  [Goes  behind  the  circular  table  and  comes  on 
ADOLF'S  right.}  Do  you  think  I  should  like  to  give  him 
that  satisfaction,  that  I  should  like  to  make  his  prophecy 
come  true? 

Adolf.    No,  I  won't  believe  that  of  you. 

Thekla.  Then  if  that's  so,  why  aren't  you  easy  on  the 
subject? 

Adolf.  It's  your  flirtations  which  keep  me  in  a  chronic 
state  of  agitation.  Why  do  you  go  on  playing  that 
game? 

Thekla.    It's  no  game.    I  want  to  be  liked,  that's  all. 

Adolf.    Quite  so ;  but  only  liked  by  men. 

Thekla.  Of  course.  Do  you  suggest  it  would  be  pos- 
sible for  one  of  us  women  to  get  herself  liked  by  other 
women  ? 

Adolf.  I  say.  [Pause.]  Haven't  you  heard  recently 
— from  him? 

Thekla,    Not  for  tbt  last  six  months. 

Adolf.    Do  you  never  think  of  him? 

Thekla.  [After  a  pause,  quickly  and  tontlessly.]  No. 
[With  a  step  toward  the  left.]  Since  the  death  of  the 
child  there  is  no  longer  any  tie  between  us.  [Peruse.] 

Adolf.    And  you  never  see  him  in  the  street? 

Thekla.  No ;  he  must  have  buried  himself  somewhere 
on  the  west  coast.  But  why  do  you  harp  on  that  sub- 
ject just  now? 

Adolf.    I  don't  know.    When  I  was  so  alone  these  last 


THE   CREDITOR  83 

few  days,  it  just  occurred  to  me  what  he  must  have  felt 
like  when  he  was  left  stranded. 

Thekla.     I  believe  you've  got  pangs  of  conscience. 

Adolf.     Yes. 

Thekla.    You  think  you're  a  thief,  don't  you? 

Adolf.     Pretty  near. 

Thekla.  All  right.  You  steal  women  like  you»  steal 
children  or  fowl.  You  regard  me  to  some  extent  like 
his  real  or  personal  property.  Much-  obliged. 

Adolf.  No ;  I  regard  you  as  his  wife,  and  that's-  more 
than  property ;  it  can't  be  made  up  in  damages. 

Thekla.  Oh  yes,  it  can.  If  you  happen-  to  hear  one 
fine  day  that  he  has  married  again,  these  whims  and 
fancies  of  yours  will  disappear.  [She  comes  over  to 
him.]  Haven't  you  made  up.  for  him  to  me? 

Adolf.  Have  I  ? — and  did  you  use  to  love  him  in  those 
days? 

Thekla.  [Goes  behind  him  to  the  fireplace  on  the 
right.]  Of  course  I  loved  him— certainly. 

Adoif.     And  afterward? 

Thekla.    I  got  tired  of  him. 

Adolf.  And  just  think,  if  you  get  tired  of  me  in  the 
same  way? 

Thekla.    That  will  never  be. 

Adolf.  But  suppose  another  man  came  along  with  all 
the  qualities  that  you  want  in  a  man?  Assume  the 
hypothesis,  wouldn't  you  leave  me  in  that  case? 

Thekla.    No. 

Adolf.  If  he  riveted  you  to  him  so  strongly  that  you 
couldn't  be  parted  from  him,  then  of  course  you'd  give 
me  up? 

Thekla.    No ;  I  have  never  yet  said  anything  like  that. 

Adolf.  But  you  can't  love  two  people  at  the  same 
time? 

Thekla.    Oh,  yes.    Why  not? 

Adolf.    I  can't  understand  it. 

Thekla.     Is  anything  then  impossible  simply  because 


84  THE  CREDITOR 

you  can't  understand  it?    All  men  are  not  made  on  the 
same  lines,  you  know. 

Adolf.  [Getting  up  a  few  steps  to  the  left.]  I  am 
now  beginning  to  understand. 

Thekla.    No,  really? 

Adolf.  [Sits  down  in  his  previous  place  by  the  square 
table.]  No,  really?  [Pause,  during  which  he  appears 
to  be  making  an  effort  to  remember  something,  but  with- 
out success.]  Thekla,  do  you  know  that  your  frankness 
is  beginning  to  be  positively  agonizing?  [THEKLA 
moves  away  from  him  behind  the  square  table  and  goes 
behind  the  sofa  on  the  left.]  Haven't  you  told  me,  times 
out  of  number,  that  frankness  is  the  most  beautiful  vir- 
tue you  know,  and  that  I  must  spend  all  my  time  in 
acquiring  it?  But  it  seems  to  me  you  take  cover  behind 
your  frankness. 

Thekla.    Those  are  the  new  tactics,  don't  you  see. 

Adolf.  [After  a  pause.]  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but 
this  place  begins  to  feel  uncanny.  If  you  don't  mind, 
we'll  travel  home  this  very  night. 

Thekla.  What  an  idea  you've  got  into  your  head 
again.  I've  just  arrived,  and  I've  no  wish  to  travel  off 
again.  [She  sits  down  on  the  sofa  on  the-  left.] 

Adolf.    But  if  I  want  it? 

Thekla.  Nonsense!  What  do  I  care  what  you  want? 
Travel  alone. 

Adolf.  [Seriously.]  I  now  order  you  to  travel  with 
me  by  the  next  steamer. 

Thekla.    Order  ?    What  do  you  mean  by  that  ? 

Adolf.    Do  you  forget  that  you're  my  wife? 

Thekla.  [Getting  up.]  Do  you  forget  that  you're  my 
husband  ? 

Adolf.  [Following  her  exam-ple.}  That's  just  the  dif- 
ference between  one  sex  and  the  other. 

Thekla.  That's  right,  speak  in  that  tone — you  have 
never  loved  me.  [She  goes  past  him  to  the  right  up  to 
the  fireplace.] 


THE   CREDITOR  85 

Adolf.     Really? 

Thekla.    No,  for  loving  means  giving. 

Adolf.  For  a  man  to  love  means  giving,  for  a  woman 
to  love  means  taking — and  I've  given,  given,  given. 

Thekla.  Oh,  to  be  sure,  you've  given  a  fine  lot, 
haven't  you? 

Adolf.     Everything. 

Thekla.  [Leans  on  the  chimney  piece.]  There  has 
been  a  great  deal  besides  that.  And  even  if  you  did  give 
me  everything,  I  accepted,  it.  What  do  you  mean  by 
coming  now  and  handing  the  bill  for  your  presents?  If 
I  did  take  them,  I  proved  to  you-  by  that  very  fact  that 
I  loved  you.  [She  approaches  him.]  A  girl  only  takes 
presents  from  her  lover. 

Adolf.  From  her  lover,  I  agree:  There  you  spoke 
the  truth.  [With  a  step  to  the  left.]  I  was  just  your 
lover,  but  never  your  husband. 

Thekla.  A  man  ought  to  be  jolly  grateful  when  he's 
spared  the  necessity  of  playing  cover,  but  if  you  aren't 
satisfied  with  the  position  you  can  have  your  conge.  I 
don't  like  a  husband. 

Adolf.  No,  I  noticed  as  much,  for  when  I  remarked, 
some  time  back,  that  you  wanted  to  sneak  away  from 
me,  and  get  a  set  of  your  own,  so-  as  to  be  able  to  deck 
yourself  out  with  my  feathers,  to  scintillate  with  my 
jewels,  I  wanted  to  remind  you  of  your  guilt.  And  then 
I  changed  from  your  point  of  view  into  that  incon- 
venient creditor,  whom  a  woman  would  particularly  pre- 
fer to  keep  at  a  safe  distance  from  one,  and  then  you 
would  have  liked  to  have  cancelled  the  debt,  and  to  avoid 
getting  any  more  into  my  debt ;  you  ceased  to  pilfer 
my  coffers  and  transferred  your  attentions  to  others.  I 
was  your  husband  without  having  wished  it,  and  your 
hate  began  to  arise ;  but  now  I'm  going  to  be  your  hus- 
band, whether  you  want  it  or  not.  I  can't  be  your  lover 
any  more,  that's  certain !  [He  sits  down  in  his  previous 
place  on  the  right.] 


86  THE   CREDITOR 

Thekla,  [Half  joking,  she  moves  away  behind  the 
table  and  goes  behind  the  sofa.]  Don't  talk  such  non- 
sense. 

Adolf.  You  be  careful!  It's  a  dangerous  game,  to 
consider  everyone  else  an  ass  and  only  oneself  smart. 

Thekla.    Everybody  does  that  more  or  less. 

Adolf.  And  I'm  just  beginning  to  suspect  that  that 
husband  of  yours  wasn't  such  an  a$s  after  all. 

Thekla.  Good  God !  I  really-  believe  you're  beginning 
to  have  sympathy — for  him  ? 

Adolf.    Yes,  almost. 

Thekla-  Well,  look  here.  Wouldn't  you  like  to  make 
his  acquaintance,  so  as  to  pour  out  your  heart  to  him  if 
you  want  to?  What  a  charming  picture!  But  I,  too, 
begin  to  feel  myself  drawn  to  him  somehow.  I'm  tired 
of  being  the  nurse  of  a  baby  like  you.  [She  goes  a  few 
steps  forward  and  passes  by  ADOLF  on  the  right.]  He 
at  any  rate  was  a  man,  evea  though  he  did  make  the 
mistake  of  being  my  husband. 

Adolf.  Hush,  hush !  But  don't  talk  so  loud,  we  might 
be  heard. 

Thekla..  What  does  it  matter,  so  long  as  we're  taken 
for  man  and  wife  ? 

Adolf.  So  this  is  what  it  comes  to,  then?  You  are 
now  beginning  to  be  keen  both  on  manly  men  and  pure 
boys. 

Thekla.  There  are  no  limits  to  my  keenness,  as  you 
see.  And  my  heart  is  open  to  the  whole  world,  great  and 
small,  beautiful  and  ugly.  I  love  the  whole  world. 

Adolf.  [Standing  up.]  Do  you  know  what  that 
means  ? 

Thekla.    No,  I  don't  know,  I  only  feel. 

Adolf.    It  means  that  old  age  has  arrived. 

Thekla.  Are  you  starting  on  that  again  now?  Take 
care! 

Adolf.    You  take  care ! 

Thekla.    What  of? 


THE   CREDITOR  87 

Adolf.    Of  this  knife.     [Goes  toward  her.] 

Thekla.  [Flippantly.]  Little  brother  shouldn't  play 
with  such  dangerous  toys.  [She  passes  by  him  behind 
the  sofa.] 

Adolf.    I'm  not  playing  any  longer. 

Thekla.  [Leaning  on  the  arm  of  the  sofd.]  Really, 
he's  serious,  is  he,  quite  serious?  Then  I'll  jolly  well 
show  you — that  you  made  a  mistake.  I  mean — you'll 
never  see  it  yourself,  you'll  never  know  it.  The  whole 
world  will  be  up  to  it,  but  you  jolly  well  won't,  you'll 
have  suspicions  and  surmises  and  you  won't  enjoy  a 
single  hour  of  peace.  You  will  have  the  consciousness 
of  being  ridiculous  and  of  being  deceived,  but  you'll 
never  have  proofs  in  your  hand,  because  a  husband  never 
manages  to  get  them.  [She  makes  a  few  steps  to  the 
right  in  front,  of  him  and  toward  him.]  That  will  teach 
you  to  -know  me. 

Adolf.  [Sits  down  in  his  previous  place  by  the  fable 
on  the  left.]  You  hate  me? 

Thekla.  No,  I  don't  hate  you,  nor  do  I  think  that  I 
could  ever  get  to  hate  you.  Simply  because  you're  a 
child. 

Adolf.  Listen  to  me!  Just  think  of  the  time  when 
the  storm  broke  over  us.  [Standing  up.]  You  lay  there 
like  a  new-born  child  and  shrieked ;  you  caught  hold 
of  my  knees  and  I  had  to  kiss  your  eyes  to  sleep.  Then 
I  was  your  nurse,  and  I  had  to  be  careful  that  you 
didn't  go  out  into  the  street  without  doing  your  hair. 
I  had  to  send  your  boots  to  the  shoemaker.  I  had  to 
take  care  there  was  something  in  the  larder.  I  had  to 
sit  by  your  side  and  hold  your  hand  in  mine  by  the 
hour,  for  you  were  frightened,  frightened  of  the  whole 
world,  deserted  by  your  friends,  crushed  by  public  opin- 
ion. I  had  to  cheer  you  up  till  my  tongue  stuck  to  my 
palate  and  my  head  ached ;  I  had  to  pose  as.  a  strong 
man,  and  compel  myself  to  believe  in  the  future,  until 
at  length  I  succeeded  in  breathing  life  into  you  while 


88  THE   CREDITOR 

you  lay  there  like  the  dead.  Then  it  was  me  you  ad- 
mired, then  it  was  I  who  was  the  man ;  not  an  athlete 
like  the  man  you  deserted,  but  the  man  of  psychic 
strength,  the  man  of  magnetism,  who  transferred  his 
moral  force  into  your  enervated  muscles  and  filled  your 
empty  brain  with  new  electricity.  And  then  I  put  you 
on  your  feet  again,  got  a  small  court  for  you,  whom  I 
jockeyed  into  admiring  you  as  a  sheer  matter  of  friend- 
ship to  myself,  and  I  made  you  mistress  over  me  and 
my  home.  I  painted  you  in  my  finest  pictures,  in  rose 
and  azure  on  a  ground  of  gold,  and  there  was  no  ex- 
hibition in  which  you  didn't  have  the  place  of  honor. 
At  one  moment  you  were  called  St.  Cecilia,  then  you 
were  Mary  Stuart,  Karm  Mansdotter,  Ebba  Brahe,  and 
so  I  succeeded  in  awakening  and  stimulating  your  in- 
terests and  so  I  compelled  the  yelping  rabble  to  look  at 
you  with  my  own  dazzled  eyes.  I  impressed  your  per- 
sonality on  them  by  sheer  force.  I  compelled  them  until 
you  had  won  their  overwhelming  sympathy — so  that  at 
last  you  have  the  free  entree.  And  when  I  had  created 
you  in  this  way  it  was  all  up  with  my  own  strength — 
I  broke  down,  exhausted  by  the  strain.  [He  sits  down 
in  his  previous  place.  THEKLA  turns  toward  the  fere- 
place  on  the  right.]  I  had  lifted  you  up,  but  at  the  same 
time  I  brought  myself  down ;  I  fell  ill ;  and  my  illness 
began  to  bore  you,  just  because  things  were  beginning 
ra  look  a  bit  rosy  for  you — and  then  it  seemed  to  me 
many  times  as  though  some  secret  desire  were  driving 
you  to  get  away  from  your  creditor  and  accomplice. 
Your  love  became  that  of  a  superior  sister,  and  through 
want  of  a  better  part  I  fell  into  the  habit  of  the  new 
role  of  the*  little  brother.  Your  tenderness  remained  the 
same  as  ever,  in'  fact,  it  has  rather  increased,  but  it  is 
tinged  with  a  grain  of  pity  which  is  counterbalanced  by 
a  strong  dose  of  contempt,  and  that  will  increase  until 
it  becomes  contempt,  even  as  my  genius  is  on  the  wane 
and  your  star  is  in  the  ascendant.  It  seems,  too,  as 


THE   CREDITOR  89 

though  your  source  were  likely  to  dry  up,  when  I  leave 
off  feeding  it,  or,  rather,  as  soon  as  you  show  that  you 
don't  want  to  draw  your  inspiration  from  me  any  longer. 
And  so  we  both  go  down,  but  you  need  somebody  you 
can  put  in  your  pocket,  somebody  new,  for  you  are  weak 
and  incapable  of  carrying  any  moral  burden  yourself. 
So  I  became  the  scapegoat  to  be  slaughtered  alive,  but 
all  the  same  we  had  become  like  twins  in  the  course  of 
years,  and  when  you  cut  through  the  thread  of  my  long- 
ing, you  little  thought  that  you  were  throttling  your  own 
self.  You  are  a  branch  from  my  tree,  and  you  wanted 
to  cut  yourself  free  from  your  parent  stem  before  it 
had  struck  roots,  but  you  are  unable  to  flourish  on  your 
own,  and  the  tree  in  its  turn  couldn't  do  without  its 
chief  branch,  and  so  both  perish. 

Thekla.  Do  you  mean,  by  all  that,  that  you've  writ- 
ten my  books  ? 

Adolf.  No;  you  say  that  so  as  to  provoke  me  into  a 
lie.  I  don't  express  myself  so  crudely  as  you,  and  I've 
just  spoken  for  five  minutes  on  end  simply  so  as  to  re«- 
produce  all  the  nuances,  all  the  half-tones,  all  the  transi- 
tions, but  your  barrel  organ  has  only  one  key. 

Thekla*  [Walking  up  and  down-  on  the  right.]  Yes, 
yes ;  but  the  gist  of  the  whole  thing  is  that  you've  written 
my  books. 

Adolf.  No,  there's  no  gist.  You  can't  resolve  a  sym- 
phony into  one  key ;  you  can't  translate  a  multifarious 
life  into  a  single  cipher.  I  never  said  anything  so  crass 
as  that  I'd  written  your  books. 

Theklcn    But  you  meant  it  all  the  same. 

Adolf.     [Furious.]     I  never  meant  it. 

Thekla.    But  the  result 

Ad.olf.  [Wildly.]  There's  no  result  if  one  doesn't 
add.  There  is  a  quotient,  a  long  infinitesimal  figure  of  a 
quotient,  but  I  didn't  add. 

Thekla.    You  didn't,  but  I  can. 

Adolf.    I  quite  believe  you,  but  I  never  did. 


90  THE   CREDITOR 

Thekla.    But  you  wanted  to. 

Adolf.  [Exhausted,  shutting  his  eyes.]  No,  no,  no— 
don't  speak  to  me  any  more,  I'm  getting  convulsions — 
be  quiet,  go  away !  You're  flaying  my  brain  with  your 
brutal  pincers — you're  thrusting  your  claws  into  my 
thoughts  and  tearing  them.  [He  loses  consciousness, 
stares  in  front  of  hint  and  turns  his  thumbs  inward.] 

Thekla.  [Tenderly  coming  toward  him-.]  What  is  it, 
dear?  Are  you  ill?  [ADOLF  beats  around  him.  THEKLA 
takes  her  handkerchief,  pours  waiter  on  to  it  out  of  the 
bottle  on  the  table  right  of  t'he  center  door,  and  cools 
his  forehead  with  it.]  Adolf ! 

Adolf.     [He  shakes  his  head.]     Yes. 

Thekla.    Do  you  see  now  that  you  were  wrong? 

Adolf.    [After  a  pause'.]    Yes,  yes-,  yes — I  see  it. 

Thekla.    And  you  ask  me  to  forgive  you? 

Adolf.  Yes,  yes,  yes — I  ask'  you  to  forgive  me;  but 
don't  talk  right  into-  my  brain  any  more. 

Thekla.    Now  kiss  my  -hand. 

Adolf.  I'll  kiss  your  hand,  if  only  you  won't  speak  to 
me  any  more. 

Thekia.  And  now  you'll  go  out  and  get  some  fresh 
air  before  dinner. 

Adolf,  [Getting  up'.]  Yes,  that  will  do  me  good,  and 
afterward  we'll  pack  up  and  go  away. 

Thekla.  No.  [She  moves  away  from  him  up  to  the 
fireplace  on  the'  right.] 

Adolf.    Why  not?    You  must  have  some  reason. 

Thekla.  The  simple  reason  that  I've  arranged  to  be 
at  the  reception  this  evening. 

Adolf.    That's  it,  is  it? 

Thekla.  That's  it  right  enough.  I've  promised  to  be 
there. 

Adolf.  Promised?  You  probably  said  that  you'd  try 
to  come ;  it  doesn't  prevent  you  from  explaining  that  you 
have  given  up  your  intention. 


THE   CREDITOR  91 

Thekla.  No,  I'm  not  like  you:  my  word  is  binding 
on  me. 

Adolf.  One's  word  can  be  binding  without  one  being 
obliged  to  respect  every  casual  thing  one  lets  fall  in 
conversation ;  or  did  somebody  make  you  promise  that 
you'd  go-?  In  that  case,  you.  can  ask  him  to  release  you 
because  your  husband  is  ill. 

Thekla.  No,  I've  no  inclination  to  do  so.  And,  be- 
sides, you're  not  so  ill  that  you  can't  quite  well  come 
along  too. 

Adolf.  Why  must  I  always  come  along  too?  Does 
it  contribute  to  your  greater  serenity? 

Thekla*    I  don't  understand  what  you  mean. 

Adolf.  That's  what  you  always  say  when  you  know  I 
mean  something  which  you  don't  like. 

Thekla.    Re-a-lly?    And  why  shouldn't  I  like  it? 

Adolf,  Stop!  stop-!  Don't  start  all  over  again — good- 
bye for  the  present — I'll  be  back  soon;  I  hope  that  in 
the  meanwhile  you'll  have  thought  better  of  it.  [Ex-it 
through  the  central  door  and  then  toward  the  right. 
THEKLA  accompanies  him  to  the  back  of  the  stage.  Gus- 
TAV  enters,  after"  a  pause,  from  the  right.] 


SCENE  III 

[GUSTAV  goes  straight  up  to  the  table  on  the  left  and 
takes  up  a  paper  without  apparently  seeing  THEKLA.] 

Thekla.  [Starts,  then  cotftrols  herself.]  You?  [She 
comes  forward.] 

Gustav.    It's  me — excuse  me. 

Thekla.     [On  his  left.]     Where  do  you  come  from? 

Gustav.  I  came  by  the  highroad,  but — I  won't  stay 
on  here  after  seeing  that 

Thekla.    Oh,  you  stay Well,  it's  a  long  time. 

Gustav.     You're  right,  a  very  long  time. 

Thekla.    You've  altered  a  great  deal,  Gustav. 


92  THE   CREDITOR 

Gustav.  But  you,  on  the  other  hand,  my  dear  Thekla, 
are  still  quite  as  fascinating  as  ever — almost  younger,  in 
fact.  Please  forgive  me.  I  wouldn't  for  anything  dis- 
turb your  happiness  by  my  presence.  If  I'd  known  that 
you  were  staying  here  I  would  never  have 

Thekla.  Please — please,  stay.  It  may  be  that  you  find 
it  painful. 

Gustav,  It's  all  right  so  far  as  I'm  concerned.  I  only 
thought — that  whatever  I  said  I  should  always  have  to 
run  the  risk  of  wounding  you. 

Thekla.  [Passes  in  front  of  him  toward  the  right.] 
Sit  down  for  a  moment,  Gustav ;  you  don't  wound  me, 
because  you  have  the  unusual  gift — which  always  dis- 
tinguished you — of  being  subtle  and  tactful. 

Gustav.  You're  too  kind ;  but  how  on  earth  can  one 
tell  if — your  husband  would  regard  me  in  the  same  light 
that  you  do? 

Thekla.  Quite  the  contrary.  Why,  he's  just  been  ex- 
pressing himself  with  the  utmost  sympathy  with  regard 
to  you. 

Gustav.  Ah!  Yes,  everything  dies  away,  even  the 
names  which  we  cut  on  the  tree's  bark — not  even  malice 
can  persist  for  long  in  these  temperaments  of  ours. 

Thekla.  He's  never  entertained  malice  against  you — 
why,  he  doesn't  know  you  at  all — and,  so  far  as  I'm  con- 
cerned, I  always  entertained  the  silent  hope  that  I  would 
live  to  see  the  time  in  which  you  would  approach  each 
other  as  friends — or  at  least  meet  each  other  in  my  pres- 
ence, shake  hands,  and  part. 

Gustav.  It  was  also  my  secret  desire  to  see  the  woman 
whom  I  loved  more  than  my  life  in  really  good  hands, 
and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I've  only  heard  the  very  best 
account  of  him,  while  I  know  all  his  work  as  well.  All 
the  same,  I  felt  the  need  of  pressing  his  hand  before  I 
grew  old,  looking  him  in  the  face,  and  asking  him  to 
preserve  the  treasure  which  providence  had  entrusted  to 
him,  and  at  the  same  time  I  wanted  to  extinguish  the 


THE   CREDITOR  93 

hate  which  was  burning  inside  me,  quite  against  my  will, 
and  I  longed  to  find  peace  of  soul  and  resignation,  so  as 
to  be  able  to  finish  in  quiet  that  dismal  portion  of  my 
life  which  is  still  left  me. 

Thekla.  Your  words  come  straight  from  your  heart; 
you  have  understood  me,  Gustav — thanks.  [She  holds 
out  her  hand.] 

Gustav.  Ah,  I'm  a  petty  man.  Too  insignificant  to 
allow  of  you  thriving  in  my  shadow.  Your  tempera- 
ment, with  its  thirst  for  freedom,  could  not  be  satisfied 
by  my  monotonous  life,  the  slavish  routine  to  which  I 
was  condemned,  the  narrow  circle  in  which  I  had  to 
move.  I  appreciate  that,  but  you  understand  well  enough 
— you  who  are  such  an  expert  psychologist — what  a 
struggle  it  must  have  cost  me  to  acknowledge  that  to 
myself. 

Thekla.  How  noble,  how  great  to  acknowledge  one's 
weakness  so  frankly — it's  not  all  men  who  can  bring 
themselves  to  that  point.  [She  sighs.]  But  you  are  al- 
ways an  honest  character,  straight  and  reliable — which  I 
knew  how  to  respect — but 

Gustav.  I  wasn't — not  then,  but  suffering  purges,  care 
ennobles,  and — and — I  have  suffered. 

Thekla.  [Comes  nearer  to  him.]  Poor  Gustav,  can 
you  forgive  me,  can  you?  Tell  me. 

Gustav.  Forgive?  What?  It  is  I  who  have  to  ask 
you  for  forgiveness. 

Thekla.  [Striking  another  key.]  I  do  believe  that 
we're  both  crying — though  we're  neither  of  us  chickens. 

Gustav.  [Softly  sliding  into  another  tone.]  Chickens, 
indeed!  I'm  an  old  man,  but  you — you're  getting 
younger  every  day. 

Thekla.    Do  you  mean  it? 

Gustav.    And  how  well  you  know  how  to  dress ! 

Thekla.  It  was  you  and  no  one  else  who  taught  me 
that.  Do  you  still  remember  finding  out  my  special 
colors  ? 


94  THE   CREDITOR 

Gustav.     No. 

Thekla,  It  was  quite  simple,  don't  you  remember? 
Come,  I  still  remember  distinctly  how  angry  you  used  to 
be  with  me  if  I  ever  had  anything  else  except  pink. 

Gustav.  I  angry  with  you?  I  was  never  angry  with 
you. 

Thekla.  Oh  yes,  you  were,  when  you  wanted  to  teach 
me  how  to  think.  Don't  you  remember?  And  I  wasn't 
able  to  catch  on. 

Gustav.  Not  able  to  think  ?  Everybody  can  think,  and 
now  you're  developing  a  quite  extraordinary  power  of 
penetration — at  any  rate,  in  your  writings. 

Thekla.  [Disagreeably  affected,  tries  to  change  the 
subject  quickly.]  Yes,  Gustav  dear,  I  was  really  awfully 
glad  to  see  you  again,  especially  under  circumstances  so 
unemotional. 

Gustav.  Well,  you  can't  say,  at  any  rate,  that  I  was 
such  a  cantankerous  cuss :  taking  it  all  round,  you  had  a 
pretty  quiet  time  of  it  with  me. 

Thekla.    Yes ;  if  anything,  too  quiet. 

Gustav.  Really?  But  I  thought,  don't  you  see,  that 
you  wanted  me  to  be  quiet  and  nothing  else.  Judging 
by  your  expressions  of  opinion  as  a  bride,  I  had  to  come 
to  that  assumption. 

Thekla.  How  could  a  woman  know  then  what  she 
really  wanted?  Besides,  mother  had  always  drilled  into 
me  to  make  the  best  of  myself. 

Gustav.  Well,  and  that's  why  it  is  that  you're  going 
as  strong  as  possible.  There's  such  a  lot  always  doing 
in  artist  life — your  husband  isn't  exactly  a  home-bird. 

Thekla.  But  even  so,  one  can  have  too  much  of  a 
good  thing. 

Gustav.  [Suddenly  changing  his  tone.]  Why,  I  do 
believe  you're  still  wearing  my  earrings. 

Thekla.  [Embarrassed.]  Yes,  why  shouldn't  I  ?  We're 
not  enemies,  you  know — and  then  I  thought  I  would 
wear  them  as  a  symbol  that  we're  not  enemies — besides, 


THE   CREDITOR  95 

you  know  that  earrings  like  this  aren't  to  be  had  any 
more.     [She  takes  one  off.] 

Gustav.  Well,  so  far  so  good;  but  what  does  your 
husband  say  on  the  point  ? 

Thekla.     Why  should  I  ask  him? 

Gustav.  You  don't  ask  him?  But  that's  rubbing  it 
in  a  bit  too  much — it  could  quite  well  make  him  look 
ridiculous. 

Thekla.  [Simply — in  an  undertone.]  If  it  only  weren't 
so  pretty.  [She  has  some  trouble  in  adjusting  the  ear- 
ring.] 

Gustav.  [Who  has  noticed  it.]  Perhaps  you  will  al- 
low me  to  help  you? 

Thekla.    Oh,  if  you  would  be  so  kind. 

Gustav.  [Presses  it  into  the  ear.]  Little  ear!  I 
say,  dear,  supposing  your  husband  saw  us  now. 

Thekla.    Then  there'd  be  a  scene. 

Gustav.     Is  he  jealous,  then? 

Thekla.  I  should  think  he  is — rather!  [Noise  in  the 
room  on  the  right.] 

Gustav.  [Passes  in  front  of  her  toward  the  right.] 
Whose  room  is  that? 

Thekla.  [Stepping  a  little  toward  the  left.]  I  don't 
know — tell  me  how  you  are  now,  and  what  you're  doing. 
[She  goes  to  the  table  on  the-  left.] 

Gustav.  You  tell  me  how  you  are.  [He  gee's  behind 
the  square  table  on  fhe  left,  over  to  the  sofa.  THEKLA, 
embarrassed,  takes  the  cloth  off  the  figure  absent-mind- 
edly.] No!  who  is  that?  Why — it's  you! 

Thekla.    I  don't  think  so. 

Gustav.    But  it  looks  like  you. 

Thekla.     [Cynically.]     You  think  so? 
Gustav.     [Sits  down  on  the  sofa.]    It  reminds  one  of 
the  anecdote:  "How  could  your  Majesty  say  that?" 

Thekla.  [Laughs  loudly  and  sits  down  opposite  him 
on  the  settee.]  What  foolish  ideas  you  do  get  into  your 


96  THE   CREDITOR 

head.    Have  you  got  by  any  chance  some  new  yarns? 

Gustav.    No ;  but  you  must  know  some. 

Thekla.  I  don't  get  a  chance  any  more  now  of  hear- 
ing anything  which  is  really  funny. 

Gustav.    Is  he  as  prudish  as  all  that? 

Thekla.    Rather! 

Gustav.    Never  different? 

Thekla.    He's  been  so  ill  lately.     [Both  stand  up.] 

Gustav.  Well,  who  told  little  brother  to  walk  into 
somebody  else's  wasp's  nest? 

Thekla.     [Laughs.]     Foolish  fellow,  you! 

Gustav.  Poor  child !  do  you  still  remember  that  once, 
shortly  after  our  engagement,  we  lived  in  this  very  room, 
eh?  But  then  it  was  furnished  differently,  there  was  a 
secretary,  for  instance,  here,  by  the  pillar,  and  the  bed 
[with  delicacy]  was  here. 

Thekla.    Hush! 

Gustav.    Look  at  me! 

Thekla.  If  you  would  like  me  to.  [They  keep  their 
eyes  looking  into  each  other  for  a  minute.] 

Gustav.  Do  you  think  it  is  possible  to  forget  a  thing 
which  has  made  so  deep  an  impression  on  one's  life  ? 

Thekla.  No;  the  power  of  impressions  is  great,  par- 
ticularly when  they  are  the  impressions  of  one's  youth. 
[She  turns  toward  the  fireplace  on  her  right.] 

Gustav.  Do  you  remember  how  we  met  for  the  first 
time?  You  were  such  an  ethereal  little  thing,  a  little 
slate  on  which  your  parents  and  governess  had  scratched 
some  wretched  scrawl,  which  I  had  to  rub  out  after- 
ward, and  then  I  wrote  a  new  text  on  it,  according  to 
what  I  thought  right,  till  it  seemed  to  you  that  the  slate 
was  filled  with  writing.  [He  follows  her  to  the  circular 
table  on  the  right.}  That's  why,  do  you  see,  I  shouldn't 
like  to  be  in  your  husband's  place — no,  that's  his  busi- 
ness. [Sits  down  in*  front  of  the  circular  table.}  But 
that's  why  meeting  you  has  an  especial  fascination  for 
me.  We  hit  it  off  together  so  perfectly,  and  when  I  sit 


THE   CREDITOR  97 

down  here  and  chat  with  you  it's  just  as  though  I  were 
uncorking  bottles  of  old  wine  which  I  myself  have  bot- 
tled. The  wine  which  is  served  to  me  is  my  own,  but  it 
has  mellowed.  And  now  that  I  intend  to  marry  again,  I 
have  made  a  very  careful  choice  of  a  young  girl  whom 
I  can  train  according  to  my  own  ideas.  [Getting  up.] 
For  woman  is  man's  child,  don't  you  know ;  if  she  isn't 
his  child,  then  he  becomes  hers,  and  that  means  that  the 
world  is  turned  upside  down. 

Thekla.    You're  going  to  marry  again? 

Gustav.  Yes.  I'm  going  to  try  my  luck  once  more, 
but  this  time  I'll  jolly  well  see  that  the  double  harness  is 
more  reliable  and  shall  know  how  to  guard  against  any 
bolting. 

Thekla.  [Turns  and  goes  over  toward  him  to  the  left.} 
Is  she  pretty? 

Gustav.  Yes,  according  to  my  taste,  but  perhaps  I'm 
too  old,  and,  strangely  enough — now  that  chance  brings 
me  near  to  you  again — I'm  now  beginning  to  have  grave 
doubts  of  the  feasibility  of  playing  a  game  like  that  twice 
over. 

Thekla.    What  do  you  mean  ? 

Gustav.  I  feel  that  my  roots  are  too  firmly  embedded 
in  your  soil,  and  the  old  wounds  break  open.  You're  a 
dangerous  woman,  Thekla. 

Thekla.  Re-a-lly?  My  young  husband  is  emphatic 
that  is  just  what  I'm  not — that  I  can't  make  any  more 
conquests. 

Gustav.    That  means  he's  left  off  loving  you. 

Thekla.  What  he  means  by  love  lies  outside  my  line 
of  country.  [She  goes  behind  the  sofa  on  the  left, 
GUSTAV  goes  after  her  as  far  as  the  table  on  the  left.} 

Gustai'.  You've  played  hide  and  seek  so  long  with 
each  other  that  the  "he"  can't  catch  the  she,  nor  the  she 
the  "he,"  don't  you  know.  Of  course,  it's  just  the  kind 
of  thing  one  would  expect.  You  had  to  play  the  little 
innocent,  and  that  made  him  quite  tame.  As  a  matter 


98  THE   CREDITOR 

of  fact,  a  change  has  its  disadvantages — yes,  it  has  its 
disadvantages. 

Thekla.    You  reproach  me? 

Gustav.  Not  for  a  minute.  What  always  happens, 
happens  with  a  certain  inevitability,  and  if  this  particular 
thing  hadn't  happened  something  else  would,  but  this  did 
happen,  and  here  we  are. 

Thekla.  You're  a  broad-minded  man.  I've  never  yet 
met  anybody  with  whom  I  liked  so  much  to  have  a  good 
straight  talk  as  with  you.  You  have  so  little  patience 
with  all  that  moralizing  and  preaching,  and  you  make 
such  small  demands  on  people,  that  one  feels  really  free 
in  your  presence.  Do  you  know,  I'm  jealous  of  your 
future  wife?  [She  comes  forward  and  passes  by  him 
toward  the  right.] 

Gustav.    And  you  know  I'm  jealous  of  your  husband. 

Thekla.  And  now  we  must  part!  For  ever!  [She 
goes  past  him  till  she  approaches  the  center  door.] 

Gustav.  Quite  right,  we  must  part — but  before  that, 
we'll  say  good-bye  to  each  other,  won't  we? 

Thekla.     [Uneasily.]     No. 

Gustav.  [Dogging  her.]  Yes,  we  will ;  yes,  we  will. 
We'll  say  good-bye ;  we  will  drown  our  memories  in  an 
ecstasy  which  will  be  so  violent  that  when  we  wake  up 
the  past  will  have  vanished  from  our  recollection  for- 
ever. There  are  ecstasies  like  that,  you  know.  [He  puts 
his  arm  round  her  waist.]  You're  being  dragged  down 
by  a  sick  spirit,  who's  infecting  you  with  his  own  con- 
sumption. I  will  breathe  new  life  into  you.  I  will  fer- 
tilize your  genius,  so  that  it  will  bloom  in  the  autumn  like 
a  rose  in  the  spring,  I  will [Two  lady  visitors  ap- 
pear on  the  right  behind  the  central  door.] 

SCENE  IV 

The  previous  characters;  the  Two  LADIES. 
[The  ladies  appear  surprised,  point,  laugh,  and  exeunt 
on  the  left.] 


THE   CREDITOR  99 

SCENE  V 

Thekla.     [Disengaging  herself.]    Who  was  that? 

Gustav.  [Casually,  while  he  closes  the  central  door.} 
Oh,  some  visitors  who  were  passing  through. 

Thekla.  Go  away!  I'm  afraid  of  you.  [She  goes 
behind  the  sofa  on  the  left.] 

Gustav.     Why  ? 

Thekla.    You've  robbed  me  of  my  soul. 

Gustav.  [Comes  forward,]  And  I  give  you  mine  in 
exchange  for  it.  Besides,  you  haven't  got  any  soul  at  all. 
It's  only  an  optical  illusion. 

Thekla.  You've  got  a  knack  of  being  rude  in  such  a 
way  that  one  can't  be  angry  with  you. 

Gustav.  That's  because  you  know  very  well  that  I  am 
designated  for  the  place  of  honor — tell  me  now  when — 
and  where  ? 

Thekla.  [Coming  toward  him.]  No.  I  can't  hurt 
him  by  doing  a  thing  like  that.  I'm  sure  he  still  loves 
me,  and  I  don't  want  to  wound  him  a  second  time. 

Gustav.  He  doesn't  love  you.  Do  you  want  to  have 
proofs  ? 

Thekla.    How  can  you  give  me  them? 

Gustav.  [Takes  up  from  the  floor  the  fragments  of 
photograph  behind  the  circular  table  on  the  right.]  Here, 
look  at  yourself!  [He  gives  them  to  her.] 

Thekla.    Oh,  that  is  shameful! 

Gustav.  There,  you  can  see  for  yourself — well,  when 
and  where? 

Thekla.    The  false  brute ! 

Gustav.    When  ? 

Thekla.  He  goes  away  to-night  by  the  eight  o'clock 
boat. 

Gustav.    Then 

Thekla.  At  nine.  [A  noise  in  the  room  on  the  right.] 
Who's  in  there  making  such  a  noise  ? 

Gustav.     [Goes  to  the  right  to  the  keyhole.]     Let's 


ioo  THE   CREDITOR 

have  a  look — the  fancy  table  has  been  upset  and  there's 
a  broken  water-bottle  on  the  floor,  that's  all.  Perhaps 
someone  has  shut  a  dog  up  there.  [He  goes  again  to- 
ward her.]  Nine  o'clock,  then? 

Thekla.  Right  you  are.  I  should  only  like  him  to  see 
the  fun — such  a  piece  of  deceit,  and  what's  more,  from  a 
man  that's  always  preaching  truthfulness,  who's  always 
drilling  into  me  to  speak  the  truth.  But  stop — how  did 
it  all  happen?  He  received  me  in  almost  an  unfriendly 
manner— didn't  come  to  the  pier  to  meet  me — then  he  let 
fall  a  remark  over  the  pure  boy  on  the  steamboat,  which 
I  pretended  not  to  understand.  But  how  could  he  know 
anything  about  it?  Wait  a  moment.  Then  he  began  to 
philosophize  about  women — then  you  began  to  haunt  his 
brain — then  he  spoke  about  wanting  to  be  a  sculptor,  be- 
cause sculpture  was  the  art  of  the  present  day — just  like 
you  used  to  thunder  in  the  old  days. 

Gustav.  No,  really?  [THEKLA  moves  away  from 
GUSTAV  behind  the  sofa  on  the  left.] 

Thekla.  "No,  really."  Now  I  understand.  [To  GUS- 
TAV.] Now  at  last  I  see  perfectly  well  what  a  miserable 
scoundrel  you  are.  You've  been  with  him  and  have 
scratched  his  heart  out  of  his  body.  It's  you — you 
who've  been  sitting  here  on  the  sofa.  It  was  you  who've 
been  suggesting  all  these  ideas  to  him :  that  he  was  suf- 
fering from  epilepsy,  that  he  should  live  a  celibate  life, 
that  he  should  pit  himself  against  his  wife  and  try  to 
play  her  master.  How  long  have  you  been  here? 

Gustav.     Eight  days. 

Thekla.  You  were  the  man,  then,  I  saw  on  the 
steamer  ? 

Gustav.     [Frankly.}     It  was  I. 

Thekla.  And  did  you  really  think  that  I'd  fall  in  with 
your  little  game? 

Gustav.     [Firmly.]     You've  already  done  it. 

Thekla.    Not  yet. 
•     Gustav.     [Firmly.]     Yes,  you  have. 


THE   CREDITOR  101 

Thekla.  [Comes  forward.]  You've  stalked  my  lamb 
like  a  wolf.  You  came  here  with  a  scoundrelly  plan  of 
smashing  up  my  happiness  and  you've  been  trying  to 
carry  it  through  until  I  realized  what  you  were  up  to 
and  put  a  spoke  in  your  precious  wheel. 

Gustav.  [Vigorously.]  That's  not  quite  accurate.  The 
thing  took  quite  another  course.  That  I  should  have 
wished  in  my  heart  of  hearts  that  things  should  go  badly 
with  you  is  only  natural.  Yet  I  was  more  or  less  con- 
vinced that  it  would  not  be  necessary  for  me  to  cut  in 
actively;  besides,  I  had  far  too  much  other  business  to 
have  time  for  intrigues.  But  just  now,  when  I  was  loaf- 
ing about  a  bit,  and  happened  to  run  across  you  on  the 
steamer  with  your  circle  of  young  men,  I  thought  that 
the  time  had  come  to  get  to  slightly  closer  quarters  with 
you  two.  I  came  here  and  that  lamb  of  yours  threw 
himself  immediately  into  the  wolf's  arms.  I  aroused  his 
sympathy  by  methods  of  reflex  suggestion,  into  details 
of  which,  as  a  matter  of  good  form,  I'd  rather  not  go. 
At  first  I  experienced  a  certain  pity  for  him,  because 
he  was  in  the  very  condition  in  which  I  had  once  found 
myself.  Then,  as  luck  would  have  it,  he  began  unwit- 
tingly to  probe  about  in  my  old  wound — you  know  what 
I  mean — the  book — and  the  ass — then  I  was  overwhelmed 
by  a  desire  to  pluck  him  to  pieces  and  to  mess  up  the 
fragments  in  such  a  tangle  that  they  could  never  be  put 
together  again.  Thanks  to  the  conscientious  way  in 
which  you  had  cleared  the  ground,  I  succeeded  only  too 
easily,  and  then  I  had  to  deal  with  you.  You  were  the 
spring  in  the  works  that  had  to  be  taken  to  pieces.  And, 
that  done,  the  game  was  to  listen  for  the  smash-up !  When 
I  came  into  this  room  I  had  no  idea  what  I  was  to  say. 
I  had  a  lot  of  plans  in  my  head,  like  a  chess  player,  but 
the  character  of  the  opening  depended  on  the  moves  you 
made ;  one  move  led  to  another,  chance  was  kind  to  me. 
I  soon  had  you  on  toast — and  now  you're  in  a  nice  mess. 

Thekla.     Nonsense. 


102  THE   CREDITOR 

Gustav.  Oh  yes ;  what  you'd  have  prayed  your  stars 
to  avoid  has  happened:  society,  in  the  persons  of  two 
lady  visitors — I  didn't  commandeer  their  appearance  be- 
cause intrigue  is  not  in  my  line — society,  I  say,  has  seen 
your  pathetic  reconciliation  with  your  first  husband,  and 
the  penitent  way  in  which  you  crawled  back  into  his 
faithful  arms.  Isn't  that  enough? 

Thekla\  [She  goes  over  to  him  toward. the  right.]  Tell 
me — you  who  make  such  a  point  of  being  so  logical  and 
so  intellectual — how  does  it  come  about  that  you,  who 
make  such  a  point  of  your  maxim  that  everything  which 
happens  happens  as  a  matter  of  necessity,  and  that  all 
our  actions  are  determined 

Gustav.  [Corrects  her.}  Determined  up  to  a  certain 
extent. 

Thekla.    It  comes  to  the  same  thing. 

Gustav.    No. 

Thekla.  How  does  it  come  about  that  you,  who  are 
bound  to  regard  me  as  an  innocent  person,  inasmuch  as 
nature  and  circumstances  have  driven  me  to  act  as  I  did, 
could  regard  yourself  as  justified  in  revenging  yourself 
on  me? 

Gustav.  Well,  the  same  principle  applies,  you  see — 
that  is  to  say,  the  principle  that  my  temperament  and  cir- 
cumstances drove  me  to  revenge  myself.  Isn't  it  a  case 
of  six  of  one  and  half-a-dozen  of  the  other?  But  do 
you  know  why  you've  got  the  worst  of  it  in  this  strug- 
gle? [Thekla  looks  contemptuous.]  Why  you  and  that 
husband  of  yours  managed  to  get  downed  ?  I'll  tell  you. 
Because  I  was  stronger  than  you,  and  smarter.  It  was 
you,  my  dear,  who  was  a  donkey — and  he  as  well !  So 
you  see,  that  one  isn't  necessarily  bound  to  be  quite  an 
ass  even  though  one  doesn't  write  any  novels  or  paint 
any  pictures.  Just  remember  that!  [He  turns  away 
from  her  to  the  left.} 

Thekla.    Haven't  you  got  a  grain  of  feeling  left  ? 

Gustav.    Not  a  grain — that's  why,  don't  you  know,  I'm 


THE   CREDITOR  103 

so  good  at  thinking,  as  you  are  perhaps  able  to  see  by 
the  slight  proofs  which  I've  given  you,  and  can  play 
the  practical  man  equally  well,  and  I've  just  given  you 
something  of  a  sample  of  what  I  can  do  in  that  line. 
[He  strides  round  the  table  and  sofa  on  the  left  and  turns 
again  to  her.] 

Thekla.  And  all  this  simply  because  I  wounded  your 
vanity  ? 

Gustav.  [On  her  left.}  Not  that  only,  but  you'll  be 
jolly  careful  in  the  future  of  wounding  other  people's 
vanity — it's  the  most  sensitive  part  of  a  man. 

Thekla.    What  a  vindictive  wretch!    Ugh! 

Gustav.    What  a  promiscuous  wretch.    Ugh! 

Thekla.    Do  you  mean  that's  my  temperament? 

Gustav.     Do  you  mean  that's  my  temperament? 

Thekla.  [Goes  over  toward  him  to  the  left.}  You 
wouldn't  like  to  forgive  me? 

Gustav.    Certainly,  I  have  forgiven  you. 

Thekla.    You? 

Gustav.  Quite.  Have  I  ever  raised  my  hand  against 
you  two  in  all  these  years?  No.  But  when  I  happened 
to  be  here  I  favored  you  two  with  scarce  a  look  and  the 
cleavage  between  you  is  already  there.  Did  I  ever  re- 
proach you,  moralize,  lecture  ?  No.  I  joked  a  little  with 
your  husband  and  the  accumulated  dynamite  in  him 
just  happened  to  go  off,  but  I,  who  am  defending  myself 
like  this,  am  the  one  who's  really  entitled  to  stand  here 
and  complain.  Thekla,  have  you  nothing  to  reproach 
yourself  with  ? 

Thekla.  Not  the  least  bit — the  Christians  say  it's 
Providence  that  guides  our  actions,  others  call  it  Fate. 
Aren't  we  quite  guiltless? 

Gustav.  No  doubt  we  are  to  a  certain  extent.  But  an 
infinitesimal  something  remains,  and  that  contains  the 
guilt,  all  the  same,  and  the  creditors  turn  up  sooner  or 
later!  Men  and  women  may  be  guiltless,  but  they  have 
to  render  an  account.  Guiltless  before  Him  in  whom 


104  THE  CREDITOR 

neither  of  us  believes  any  more,  responsible  to  themselves 
and  to  their  fellow-men. 

Thekla.    You've  come,  then,  to  warn  me  ? 

Gustav.  I've  come  to  demand  back  what  you  stole 
from  me,  not  what  you  had  as  a  present.  You  stole  my 
honor,  and  I  could  only  win  back  mine  by  taking  yours — 
wasn't  I  right? 

Thekla.  [After  a  pause,  going  over  to  him  on  the 
right]  Honor!  Hm!  And  are  you  satisfied  now? 

Gustav.  [After  a  pause.]  I  am  satisfied  now.  {He 
presses  the  bell  by  the  door  L.  for  the  WAITER.] 

Thekla.  [After  another  pause.}  And  now  you're 
going  to  your  bride,  Gustav? 

Gustav.  I  have  none — and  shall  never  have  one.  I 
am  not  going  home  because  I  have  no  home,  and  shall 
never  have  one.  [WAITER  comes  in  on  the  left.} 


SCENE  VI 

[Previous  characters — WAITER  standing  back.} 
Gustav.    Bring  me  the  bill — I'm  leaving  by  the  twelve 
o'clock  boat.     [WAITER  bows  and  exits  left.] 


SCENE  VII 

Thekla.    Without  a  reconciliation? 

Gustav.  [On  her  left.]  Reconciliation?  You  play 
about  with  so  many  words  that  they've  quite  lost  their 
meaning.  We  reconcile  ourselves?  Perhaps  we  are  to 
live  in  a  trinity,  are  we?  The  way  for  you  to  effect  a 
reconciliation  is  to  put  matters  straight.  You  can't  dq 
that  alone.  You  have  not  only  taken  something,  but  you 
have  destroyed  what  you  took,  and  you  can  never  put 
it  back.  Would  you  be  satisfied  if  I  were  to  say  to  you: 
"Forgive  me  because  you  mangled  my  heart  with  your 


THE  CREDITOR  105 

claws ;  forgive  me  for  the  dishonor  you  brought  upon 
me;  forgive  me  for  being  seven  years  on  end  the  laugh- 
ing-stock of  my  pupils ;  forgive  me  for  freeing  you  from 
the  control  of  your  parents;  for  releasing  you  from  the 
tyranny  of  ignorance  and  superstition;  for  making  you 
mistress  over  my  house ;  for  giving  you  a  position  and 
friends,  I,  the  man  who  made  you  into  a  woman  out  of 
the  child  you  were?  Forgive  me  like  I  forgive  you? 
Anyway,  I  now  regard  my  account  with  you  as  squared. 
You  go  and  settle  up  your  accounts  with  the  other  man. 

Thekla.  Where  is  he  ?  What  have  you  done  with  him  ? 
I've  just  got  a  suspicion — a — something  dreadful! 

Gustav.    Done  with  him?    Do  you  still  love  him? 

Thekla.     [Goes  over  to  him  toward  the  left.]    Yes. 

Gustav.  And  a  minute  ago  you  loved  me?  Is  that 
really  so? 

Thekla.    It  is. 

Gustav.    Do  you  know  what  you  are,  then  ? 

Thekla.    You  despise  me? 

Gustav.  No,  I  pity  you.  It's  a  characteristic — I  don't 
say  a  defect,  but  certainly  a  characteristic — that  is  very 
fatal,  by  reason  of  its  results.  Poor  Thekla!  I  don't 
know — but  I  almost  think  that  I'm  sorry  for  it,  although 
I'm  quite  innocent — like  you.  But  anyway,  it's  perhaps 
all  for  the  best  that  you've  now  got  to  feel  what  I  felt 
then.  Do  you  know  where  your  husband  is? 

Thekla.  I  think  I  know  now.  [She  points  to  the 
right.}  He's  in  your  room  just  here.  He  has  heard 
everything,  seen  everything,  and  you  know  they  say  that 
he  who  looks  upon  his  vampire  dies. 


SCENE  VIII 

[ADOLF  appears,  on  the  right,  deadly  'pale,  a  streak  of 
blood  on  his  left  cheek,  a  fixed  expression  in  his  eyes, 
white  foam  on  his  mouth.] 


io6  THE   CREDITOR 

Gustav.  [Moves  back.]  No,  here  he  is — settle  with 
him  now!  See  if  he'll  be  as  generous  to  you  as  I  was. 
Good-bye.  [He  turns  to  the  left,  stops  after  a  few  steps, 
and  remains  standing.  ] 

Thekla.  [Goes  toward  ADOLF  with  outstretched  arms.] 
Adolf!  [ADOLF  sinks  down  in  .his  chair  by  the  table  on 
the  left.  THEKLA  throws  herself  over  him  and  caresses 
him.]  Adolf!  My  darling  child,  are  you  alive  ?  Speak! 
Speak !  Forgive  your  wicked  Thekla !  Forgive  me !  For- 
give me!  Forgive  me!  Little  brother  must  answer. 
Does  he  hear?  My  God,  he  doesn't  hear  me!  He's 
dead!  Good  God!  O  my  God!  Help!  Help  us! 

Gustav.  Quite  true,  she  loves  him  as  well — poor  crea- 
ture! [Curtain 


THE   STRONGER  WOMAN 


CHARACTERS 

MRS.  X.,  actress,  married. 
Miss  Y.,  actress,  unmarried. 


THE   STRONGER  WOMAN 


SCENE 

A  nook  in  a  ladies'  cafe;  two  small  tables,  a  red  plush 
sofa  and  some  chairs. 

MRS.  X.  enters  in  winter  dress,  in  a  hat  and  cloak, 
with  a  light  Japanese  basket  over  her  arm. 

Miss  Y.  sits  in  front  of  an  unfinished  bottle  of  beer 
and  reads  an  illustrated,  paper,  which  she  subsequently 
exchanges  for  another. 

Mrs.  X.  How  are  you,  my  dear  Millie?  You  look 
awfully  lonely,  at  this  gay  time  of  year,  sitting  here  all 
by  yourself,  like  a  poor  bachelor  girl. 

Miss  Y.  [Looks  up  from  her  paper,  nods  and  con- 
tinues her  reading.] 

Mrs.  X.  It  makes  me  really  quite  sorry  to  look  at  you. 
All  alone  at  a  cafe  when  all  the  rest  of  us  are  having 
such  a  good  time  of  it!  It  reminds  me  of  how  I  felt 
when  I  saw  a  wedding  party  once,  in  a  Paris  restaurant, 
and  the  bride  sat  and  read  a  comic  paper  while  the  bride- 
groom played  billiards  with  the  witnesses.  If  they  begin 
like  this,  I  said  to  myself,  how  will  they  go  on,  and  how 
will  they  end?  Fancy!  He  was  playing  billiards  on 
the  night  of  his  wedding — and  she  was  reading  an  illus- 
trated paper!  Oh,  well,  but  you  are  not  quite  in  the 
same  box!  [Waitress  enters,  puts  a  cup  of  chocolate  in 
front  of  MRS.  X.,  and  exit.]  I  say,  Millie,  I'm  not  at 
all  sure  that  you  wouldn't  have  done  better  to-  have  kept 
him.  If  you  come  to  think  of  it,  I  was  the  first  to  ask 
you  to  forgive  him  at  the  time.  Don't  you  remember? 
Why,  you  could  have  been  married  now,  and  have  had  a 
home!  Do  you  remember  how  delighted  you  were  at 

109 


I io  THE   STRONGER   WOMAN 

Christmas  when  you  stayed  with  your  fiance's  people  in 
the  country?  You  were  quite  enthusiastic  over  domestic 
happiness  and  quite  keen  on  getting  away  from  the  thea- 
ter. After  all,  my  dear  Amelia,  there's  nothing  like 
home,  sweet  home — after  the  profession,  of  course! — 
and  the  kids.  Isn't  it  so?  But  you  couldn't  understand 
that! 

Miss  Y.     [Looks  contemptuous.} 

Mrs.  X.  {Drinks  some  spoonfuls  of  chocolate  out  of 
her  cup,  then'  opens  the  basket  and  looks  at  the  Xmas 
presents.]  There,  let  me  show  you  what  I've  bought  for 
my  little  chicks.  [Takes  up  a  doll.]  Just  look  at  this! 
That's  for  Lisa.  Just  look,  it  can  roll  its  eyes  and  waggle 
its  neck.  What?  And  here's  Maja's  cork  pistol.  [Loads 
and  shoots  at  Miss  Y.] 

Miss  Y.     [Gives  a  start.] 

Mrs.  X.  Are  you  frightened  ?  Did  you  think  I  wanted 
to  shoot  you,  dear?  Upon  my  word,  I'd  never  have 
thought  you'd  have  thought  that.  I'd  have  been  much 
less  surprised  if  you'd  wanted  to  shoot  me,  for  getting 
in  your  way  (I  know  that  you  can  never  forget  any- 
thing), although  I  was  absolutely  innocent.  You  be- 
lieved of  course  that  I  worked  it  to  get  you  out  of  the 
Grand  Theater,  but  I  didn't  do  that.  I  didn't  do  it, 
although  you  think  I  did.  But  it  makes  no  odds  my 
saying  all  this,  for  you  always  think  it  was  me.  .  .  . 
[Takes  out  a  pair  of  embroidered  slippers.]  These  are 
for  my  hubby,  with  tulips  on  them  which  I  embroidered 
myself.  I  can't  stand  tulips,  you  know,  but  he's  awfully 
keen  on  therrv 

Miss  Y.  [Looks  up  ironically  and  curiously  from  her 
paper.] 

Mrs.  X.  [Holds  a  slipper  up  in  each  hand.]  Just  look 
what  small  feet  Bob  has.  Eh!  You  should  just  see, 
dear,  how  well  he  carries  himself.  But  of  course,  you've 
never  seen  him  in  slippers,  have  you,  dear? 


Ill 

Miss  Y.    [Laughs  loudly.'] 

Mrs.  X.  Look,  you  must  see.  [She  walks  the  slip- 
pers upon  the  table.] 

Miss  Y.    [Laughs  loudly.] 

Mrs.  X.  Just  see  here.  This  is  the  way  he  always 
stamps  about  whenever  he's  out  of  sorts,  like  this.  "Eh, 
that  damned  girl  will  never  learn  how.  to  make  coffee! 
Ugh!  And  now  the  confounded  idiot  has  trimmed  the 
lamp  wrong!"  The  next  minute  there's  a  draught  and 
his  feet  get  cold.  "Oof,  how  cold  it  is,  and  ttiat  blighted 
fool  can  never  manage  to  keep  the  fire  going."  [She 
rubs  the  soles  of  the  slippers  one  against  the  other.] 

Miss  Y.     [Laughs  out  loud.] 

Mrs.  X.  And  this  is  how  he  goes  on  when  he  comes 
home  and  looks  for  his  slippers,  which  Mary  puts  under 
the  chest  of  drawers.  Oh,  but  it's  a  shame  for  me  to  sit 
here  and  give  my  husband  away.  He's  a  good  sort,  at 
any  rate,  and  that's  something,  I  can  tell  you..  Yes,  you 
should  have  a  husband  like  that,  Amelia;  yes,  you,  my 
dear.  What  are  you  laughing  at?  Eh?  Eh?  And  I'll 
tell  you  how  I  know  that  he's  faithful!  I  am  sure  of 
it,  for  he  told  me  so  of  his  own  accord  .  .  .  what  are  you 
giggling  at?  Why,  when  I  went  for  a  trip  in  Norway 
that  ungrateful  Frederique  ran  after  him  and  tried  to 
seduce  him — can  you  think  of  anything  so  disgraceful! 
[Pause.}  I'd  have  scratched  the  eyes  out  of  the  crea- 
ture's head,  that  I  would,  if  she'd  come  playing  around 
when  I  was  on  the  scene!  [Pause.]  It  was  lucky  that 
Bob  told  me  of  his  own  accord  so  that  I  didn't  get  to 
hear  of  it  first  from  a  lot  of  sneaking  scandalmongers. 
[Pause.]  But  Frederique  was  not  the  only  one,  you 
may  say.  I  didn't  know  it,  but  the  women  are  absolutely 
crazy  over  my  husband.  They  think  he  is  awfully  in- 
fluential in  getting  engagements  just  because  he  holds  an 
official  position!  It  may  be  that  you,  too,  have  tried  to 
run  after  him — I  don't  trust  you  more  than  need  be — any- 


112  THE  STRONGER  WOMAN 

way,  I  know  that  he  doesn't  bother  about  you,  and  that 
you  seem  to  have  a  grudge  against  him,  and  consequently 
against  me,  the  whole  time!  [Pause;  they  look  at  each 
other  with  embarrassment.]  Come  round  and  see  us  to- 
night, dear,  just  to  show  that  you  don't  feel  badly  about 
us,  or  at  any  rate,  about  me!  I  don't  know  why,  but 
somehow  I  feel  that  it  would  be  particularly  ungracious 
of  me  to  be  unfriendly  toward  you  of  all  people.  It  may 
be  because  I  cut  you  out.  [Speaking  more  slowly.]  Or 
—or — I  can't  tell  the  reason. 

Miss  Y.     [Stares  at  MRS.  X.  curiously.] 

Mrs.  X.  [Reflectively.]  But  everything  went  wrong, 
when  you  came  to  our  house,  because  I  saw  that  my  hus- 
band couldn't  stand  you — and  I  felt  quite  uncomfortable 
as  though  there  was  a  hitch  somewhere,  and  I  did  all  I 
could  to  make  him  show  himself  friendly  toward  you, 
but  without  success — until  you  went  and  got  engaged  and 
then  a  keen  friendship  sprang  up,  so  that  it  seemed  for 
a  moment  as  though  you  had  only  first  dared  to  show 
your  true  feelings  when  you  were  in  safety — and  then  it 
went  on!  ...  I  didn't  get  jealous — strangely  enough — 
and  I  remember  the  christening  when  you  stood  god- 
mother and  I  made  him  kiss  you.  Yes,  I  did  that,  and 
you  got  so  embarrassed — I  mean  I  didn't  notice  it  at  the 
time — I  haven't  thought  of  it  since  then  either,  I  haven't 
thought  of  it  from  then  till  now.  [Gets  up  sharply.} 
Why  don't  you  say  something?  You  haven't  said  a  word 
the  whole  time,  but  have  just  let  me  sit  and  talk;  you 
have  sat  there  with  those  eyes  of  yours  and  picked  up 
all  my  thoughts — thoughts! — hallucinations  perhaps—- 
and worked  them  into  your  chain  link  by  link.  Ah,  let 
me  see.  Why  did  you  break  off  your  engagement,  and 
why,  from  that  day  to  this,  have  you  never  come  any 
more  to  our  house?  Why  won't  you  come  in  in  the 
evening? 

Miss  Y.     [Seems  as  though  she  were  about  to  speak.] 


Mrs.  X.  Stop!  You  needn't  say  it!  I  quite  under- 
stand now.  It  was  because  and  because  and  because. 
Yes,  it  all  fits  in!  That's  what  it  is.  Ugh,  I  won't  sit 
at  the  same  table  with  you.  [Moves  her  things  to  an- 
other table,]  That  was  why  I  had  to  embroider  tulips  on 
his  slippers  though  I  couldn't  stand  them ;  that  was  why. 
[Throws  the  slippers  on  the  floor.]  That  was  why  I  had 
to  spend  the  summer  at  Lake  Malarn,  because  you 
couldn't  stand  sea  air ;  that  was  why  my  boy  had  to  be 
called  Eskil,  because  that  was  your  father's  name;  that 
was  why  I  had  to  wear  your  colors,  read  your  authors, 
eat  your  favorite  dishes,  drink  your  drinks — chocolate, 
for  instance ;  that  was  why.  O  my  God !  it  is  ghastly  to 
think  of,  ghastly;  everything  I  got  came  from  you  to 
me,  even  your  passions !  Your  soul  crept  into  mine  like 
a  worm  into  an  apple,  ate  and  ate — burrowed  and  bur- 
rowed, till  there  was  nothing  left  but  the  rotten  core. 
I  wanted  to  avoid  you,  but  I  could  not ;  you  lay  there 
like  a  serpent  with  your  black  eyes  of  fascination — I 
knew  that  you  would  succeed  at  last  in  dragging  me 
down;  I  was  lying  in  a  swamp  with  my  feet  tied,  and 
the  more  violently  I  struggled  with  my  hands  the  deeper 
did  I  work  down,  down  to  the  bottom,  while  you  lay 
there  like  a  giant  crab,  and  gripped  me  in  your  claws; 
and  now  here  I  am  at  the  bottom !  Oh,  how  I  hate  you, 
hate  you,  hate  you!  But  you,  you  just  sit  there  and 
say  nothing,  quiet,  indifferent — indifferent.  It  is  all  the 
same  to  you  if  it  is  the  beginning  or  the  end  of  the 
month ;  Christmas  or  New  Year ;  if  the  rest  of  the  world 
is  happy  or  unhappy ;  you  can  neither  hate  nor  love ;  you 
sit  as  stolidly  as  a  stork  over  a  rat-trap.  But  you  couldn't 
capture  your  prey,  mind  you ;  you  couldn't  pursue  it ; 
you  could  only  wait  for  it.  Here  you  sit  in  your  lair 
— this  nook,  you  know,  has  been  called  the  Rat  Trap — 
and  you  read  your  papers  to  see  if  somebody's  having  a 
bad  time  of  it,  if  somebody's  had  a  misfortune,  if  some- 


H4  THE   STRONGER   WOMAN 

body's  been  sacked  from  the  theater;  here  you  sit  and 
survey  your  victims,  reckon  out  your  chances  like  a  pilot 
his  shipwrecks ;  take  your  toll. 

My  poor  Amelia,  do  you  know,  I  feel  quite  sorry  for 
you,  because  I  know  that  you  are  wretched,  wretched, 
like  a  wounded  creature,  and  malicious  because  you  are 
wounded.  I  cannot  be  angry  with  you,  although  I  should 
like  to  be,  because  you  are  the  weaker — why,  as  to  that 
little  affair  with  Bob,  I  am  not  bothering  about  that — 
what  did  it  really  matter  to  me?  Supposing  it  was  you 
or  somebody  else  who  taught  me  to  eat  chocolate,  what 
does  it  matter?  [Drinks  a  spoonful  out  o-f  her  cup.}  Be- 
sides, chocolate  is  very  wholesome,  and  if  I  did  learn  to 
dress  myself  in  your  model,  well  tant  mieux — it  only 
strengthens  my  hold  upon  my  husband — and  you  were 
the  loser  by  it  while  I  was  the  winner.  Why,  I  had 
ample  grounds  for  coming  to  the  conclusion  that  you  had 
already  lost  him — but  it  was  you  still  thought  that  I 
should  go  my  way!  But  now  you  carry  on  as  though 
you  were  sitting  and  repenting;  but,  you  see,  I  don't  do 
that.  One  mustn't  be  petty,  you  know. 

Why  should  I  just  take  what  nobody  else  will  have? 
Perhaps  you — taking  it  all  round — are  stronger  than  I 
am  at  this  particular  moment — you  never  got  anything 
out  of  me,  but  you  gave  me  something  of  yourself.  Oh, 
it's  really  a  case  of  thieving,  in  my  case,  isn't  it? — and 
when  you  woke  up  I  had  possessed  myself  of  the  very 
thing  you  missed. 

How  else  does  it  come  about  that  everything  you 
touched  became  worthless  and  sterile?  You  couldn't 
keep  any  man's  love,  with  those  tulips  and  those  passions 
of  yours — but  I  could ;  you  weren't  able  to  learn  the  art 
of  my  life  out  of  your  authors,  but  I  learned  it;  you 
haven't  got  any  little  Eskil,  although  your  papa  was 
called  Eskil. 

Else  why  do  you  sit  there  without  a  word,  and  brood 


THE   STRONGER   WOMAN  115 

and  brood  and  brood?  I  thought  it  was  strength,  but 
perhaps  the  reason  is  just  that  you  haven't  anything  to 
say,  that's  because  you  couldn't  think  of  anything  to  say. 
[Rises  and  takes  up  the  slippers.]  I'm  going  home  now 
— and  taking  these  tulip  things  with  me — your  tulips, 
my  dear;  you  couldn't  learn  anything  from  others — you 
couldn't  yield,  and  that's  why  you  crumpled  up  like  a 
dried-up  leaf.  I  didn't  do  that.  I  must  really  thank  you, 
Amelia,  for  the  excellent  training  you  have  given  me — 
thank  you  for  teaching  my  husband  how  to  love.  And 
now  I'm  going  home  to  love  him.  [Exit.] 

[Curtain. 


MOTHERLY   LOVE 


CHARACTERS 


MOTHERLY   LOVE 


SCENE  I 

[The  MOTHER  and  the  DRESSER  are  smoking  cigars, 
drinking  stout,  and  playing  cards.  The  DAUGHTER  sits 
by  the  window  and  looks  out  with  intentness.] 

Mother.     Come  along,  Helen — it's  your  deal. 

Daughter.  Oh,  please  let  me  off  playing  cards  on  a 
fine  summer  day  like  this.  , 

Dresser.  That's  right.  Nice  and  affectionate  to  her 
mother,  as  usual. 

Mother.  Don't  sit  like  that  on  the  veranda  and  get 
scorched. 

Daughter.    The  sun  isn't  a  bit  hot  here. 

Mother.  Well,  there's  a  draught,  anyway.  [To  the 
DRESSER.]  Your  deal,  dear.  Righto! 

Daughter.  Mayn't  I  go  and  bathe  this  morning  with 
the  other  girls? 

Mother.  Not  without  your  mamma,  you  know  that 
once  for  all. 

Daughter.  Oh,  but  the  girls  can  swim,  mamma,  and 
you  can't  swim  at  all. 

Mother.  That's  not  the  question,  whether  a  body  can 
swim  or  can't,  but  you  know,  my  child,  that  you  mustn't 
go  out  without  your  mamma. 

Daughter.  Do  I  know  it?  Since  I've  been  able  to 
understand  the  simplest  thing,  that's  been  dinned  into 
my  ears. 

Dresser.  That  only  shows  that  Helen  has  had  a  most 
affectionate  mother,  who  has  always  tried  her  best.  Yes 
— yes ;  no  doubt  about  it. 

119 


120  MOTHERLY   LOVE 

'Mother.  [Holds  out  her  hand  to  the  DRESSER.]  Thank 
you  for  your  kindly  words,  Augusta — whatever  else  I 
may  have  been — that — but  I  was  always  a  tender-hearted 
mother.  I  can  say  that  with  a  clear  conscience. 

Daughter.  Then  I  suppose  it's  no  good  my  asking  you 
if  I  can  go  down  and  have  a  game  of  tennis  with  the 
others  ? 

Dresser.  No,  no,  young  lady.  A  girl  shouldn't  sauce 
her  mamma.  And  when  she  won't  oblige  those  who  are 
nearest  and  dearest  to  her,  by  taking  part  in  their  harm- 
less fun,  it's  in  a  manner  of  speaking  adding  insult  to 
injury  for  her  to  come  and  ask  on  top  of  it,  if  she  can't 
go  and  amuse  herself  with  other  people. 

Daughter.  Yes — yes — yes.  I  know  all  that  already. 
I  know — I  know ! 

Mother.  You're  making  yourself  disagreeable  again. 
Get  something  proper  to  do,  and  don't  sit  slacking  there 
in  that  fashion.  A  grown-up  girl  like  you ! 

Daughter.  Then  why  do  you  always  treat  me  like  a 
child  if  I'm  grown  up? 

Mother.     Because  you  behave  like  one. 

Daughter.  You  have  no  right  to  rag  me — you  yourself 
wanted  me  to  remain  like  this. 

Mother.  Look  here,  Helen ;  for  some  time  past  I 
think  you've  been  a  bit  too  bloomin'  smart.  Come,  whom 
have  you  been  talking  to  down  here? 

Daughter.    With  you  two,  among  others. 

Mother.  You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  going  to  start 
having  secrets  from  your  own  mother? 

Daughter.    It's  about  time. 

Dresser.  Shame  on  you,  you  young  thing,  being  so 
cheeky  to  your  own  mother! 

Mother.  Come,  let's  do  something  sensible  instead  of 
jangling  like  this.  Why  not  come  here,  and  read  over 
your  part  with  me? 

Daughter.    The  manager  said  I  wasn't  to  go  through 


MOTHERLY   LOVE  121 

it  with  anyone,  because  if  I  did,  I  should  only  learn  some- 
thing wrong. 

Mother.  I  see ;  so  that's  the  thanks  one  gets  for  trying 
to  help  you.  Of  course,  of  course!  Everything  that  I 
do  is  always  silly,  I  suppose. 

Daughter.  Why  do  you  do  it  then  ?  And  why  do  you 
put  the  blame  on  to  me,  whenever  you  do  anything 
wrong  ? 

Dresser.  Of  course  you  want  to  remind  your  mother 
that  she  ain't  educated?  Ugh,  'ow  common! 

Daughter.  You  say  I  want  to,  aunt,  but  it's  not  the 
case.  If  mother  goes  and  teaches  me  anything  wrong, 
I've  got  to  learn  the  whole  thing  over  again,  if  I  don't 
want  to  lose  my  engagement.  We  don't  want  to  find  our- 
selves stranded. 

Mother.  I  see.  You're  now  letting  us  know  that  we're 
living  on  what  you  earn.  But  do  you  really  know  what 
you  owe  Aunt  Augusta  here?  Do  you  know  that  she 
looked  after  us  when  your  blackguard  of  a  father  left  us 
in  the  lurch  ? — that  she  took  care  of  us  and  that  you  there- 
fore owe  her  a  debt  which  you  can  never  pay  off — in  all 
your  born  days?  Do  you  know  that?  [DAUGHTER  is 
silent.]  Do  you  know  that?  Answer. 

Daughter.    I  refuse  to  answer. 

Mother.     You  do — do  you  ?    You  won't  answer  ? 

Dresser.  Steady  on,  Amelia.  The  people  next  door 
might  hear  us,  and  then  they'd  start  gossiping  again.  So 
you  go  steady. 

Mother.  [To  DAUGHTER.]  Put  on  your  things  and 
come  out  for  a  walk. 

Daughter.    I'm  not  going  out  for  a  walk  to-day. 

M-other.  This  is  now  the  third  day  that  you've  refused 
to  go  out  for  a  walk  with  your  mother.  [Reflecting.] 

Would  it  be  possible Go  out  on  to  the  veranda, 

Helen.  I  want  to  say  something  to  Aunt  Augusta. 
[DAUGHTER  exit  on  to  the  veranda.} 


122  MOTHERLY   LOVE 

SCENE  II 

Mother.    Do  you  think  it's  possible? 

Dresser.     What  ? 

Mother.    That  she's  found  out  something? 

Dresser.     It  ain't  possible. 

Mother.  It  might  'appen,  of  course.  Not  that  I  think 
anybody  could  be  so  heartless  as  to  tell  it  to  her  to  her 
face.  I  had  a  nephew  who  was  thirty-six  years  old  before 
he  found  out  that  his  father  was  a  suicide,  but  Helen's 
manner's  changed,  and  there's  something  at  the  bottom 
of  it.  For  the  last  eight  days  I've  noticed  that  she 
couldn't  bear  my  being  with  her  on  the  promenade.  She 
would  only  go  along  lonely  paths;  when  anyone  met  us 
she  looked  the  other  way ;  she  was  nervous,  couldn't  man- 
age to  get  a  single  word  out.  There's  something  behind 
all  this. 

Dresser.  Do  you  mean,  if  I  follow  you  aright,  that  the 
society  of  her  mother  is  painful  to  her? — the  society  of 
her  own  mother  ? 

Mother.     Yes. 

Dresser.     No ;  that's  really  a  bit  too  bad. 

Mother.  Well,  I'll  tell  you  something  which  is  even 
worse.  Would  you  believe  it,  that  when  we  came  here, 
she  didn't  introduce  me  to  some  of  her  friends  on  the 
steamer  ? 

Dresser.  Do  you  know  what  I  think  ?  She's  met  some- 
one or  other  who's  come  here  during  the  last  week. 
Come,  we'll  just  toddle  down  to  the  post  office  and  find 
out  about  the  latest  arrivals. 

Mother.  Yes,  let's  do  that.  I  say,  Helen,  just  mind 
the  house  a  minute.  We're  only  going  down  to  the  post 
for  a  moment. 

Daughter.    Yes,  majnma. 

Mother.  [To  DRESSER.]  It's  just  as  though  I'd  dreamed 
all  this  before. 


MOTHERLY   LOVE  123 

Dresser.  Yes;  dreams  come  true  sometimes — I  know 
that  all  right — but  not  the  nice  ones. 

[Exeunt  R. 

SCENE  III 

[DAUGHTER  gives  a  nod  out  of  the  window;  LISE  en- 
ters. She  wears  a  tennis  costume  quite  white,  and  a 
white  hat.} 

Lise.     Have  they  gone  ? 

Daughter.    Yes ;  but  they're  soon  coming  back. 

Lise.     Well,  what  did  your  mother  say? 

Daughter.  I  haven't  even  had  the  pluck  to  ask  her. 
She  was  in  such  a  temper. 

Lise.  Poor  Helen !  So  you  Can't  come  with  us  on  the 
excursion?  And  I  was  looking  forward  to  it  so  much. 
If  you  only  knew  how  fond  I  am  of  you.  [Kisses  her.] 

Daughter.  I  you  only  knew,  dear,  what  these  days 
have  meant  to  me  since  I've  made  your  acquaintance  and 
visited  your  house — have  meant  to  a  girl  like  me,  who's 
never  mixed  with  decent  people  in  her  whole  life.  Just 
think  what  it  must  have  been  for  me.  Up  to  the  present 
I've  been  living  in  a  den  where  the  air  was  foul,  where 
shady,  mysterious  people  came  in  and  out,  who  spied  and 
brawled  and  wrangled ;  where  I  have  never  heard  a  kind 
word,  much  less  ever  got  a  caress,  and  where  my  soul 
was  watched  like  a  prisoner.  Oh,  I'm  talking  like  this 
about  my  mother,  and  it  hurts  me!  And  you  will  only 
despise  me  for  it. 

Lise.    One  can't  be  made  responsible  for  one's  parents. 

Daughter.  No;  but  you've  got  to  pay  the  penalty  for 
them.  A»t  any  rate  they  say  that  very  often  one  doesn't 
find  out  before  the  end  of  one's  life  the  kind  of  people 
one's  own  parents,  with  whom  one's  lived  all  one's  life, 
have  really  been.  And  I've  picked  up  this  as  well,  that 
even  if  one  does  get  to  hear  about  it  one  doesn't  believe 
a  word. 


124  MOTHERLY  LOVE 

JLise.     [Uneasily.]    Have  you  heard  anything? 

Daughter.  Yes.  When  I  was  in  the  Bath-house  three 
days  ago  I  heard  through  the  wall  what  people  were  say- 
ing about  my  mother.  Do  you  know  what  it  was? 

Lise.     Don't  bother  about  it. 

Daughter.  They  said  my  mother  had  been  just  a  com- 
mon creature !  I  wouldn't  believe  it ;  I  won't  yet  believe 
it.  But  I  feel  that  it  is  true;  it  all  fits  in — to  make  it 
probable — and  I  am  ashamed — ashamed  of  going  near  her, 
because  I  think  that  people  stare  at  us— that  the  men 
throw  us  looks.  It's  too  awful.  But  is  it  true  ?  Tell  me 
if  you  think  that  it's  true  ? 

Lise.  People  tell  so  many  lies — and  I  don't  know  any- 
thing. 

Daughter.  Yes,  you  do  know — you  do  know  some- 
thing. You  won't  tell  me,  and  I  thank  you  for  it ;  but  I 
am  equally  miserable  whether  you  tell  me  or  whether 
you  don't 

Lise.  My  darling  friend,  knock  that  thought  out  of 
your  head  and  come  home  to  us — you'll  find  you'll  get 
on  splendidly  with  everyone.  My  father  arrived  early 
this  morning.  He  asked  after  you,  and  wanted  to  see 
you — I  ought,  of  course,  to  tell  you  they  have  written 
to  him  about  you — and  Cousin  Gerhard  as  well,  because 
I  think 

Daughter.  Yes,  you — you  have  a  father  and  I  had 
one  too,  when  I  was  still  quite,  quite  tiny. 

Lise.     What  became  of  him,  then  ? 

Daughter.  Mother  always  says  he  left  us  because  he 
was  a  bad  lot. 

Lise.  It's  hard  to  find  where  the  truth  lies.  But — I 
tell  you  what ;  if  you  come  home  to  us  now  you'll  meet 
the  director  of  the  Imperial  Theater,  and  it's  possible  it 
might  be  a  question  of  an  engagement. 

Daughter.    What  do  you  say? 

Lise.    Yes,  yes — that's  it.     And  he  takes  an  interest 


MOTHERLY  LOVE  125 

in  you — I  mean  Gerhard — and  I  have  made  him  take 
an  interest  in  you,  and  you  know  quite  well  what  trifles 
often  decide  one's  whole  life;  a  personal  interview,  a 
good  recommendation  at  the  right  moment — well,  now, 
you  can't  refuse  any  longer,  without  standing  in  the  way 
of  your  own  career. 

Daughter.  Oh,  darling,  I  should  think  I  did  want  to 
come.  You  know  that  quite  well;  but  I  don't  go  out 
without  mamma. 

Lise.     Why  not?    Can  you  give  me  any  reason? 

Daughter.  I  don't  know.  She  taught  me  to  say  that 
when  I  was  a  child.  And  now  it's  got  deeply  rooted. 

Lise.     Has  she  extracted  some  promise  from  you? 

Daughter.  No,  she  didn't  have  any  need  to  do  that. 
She  just  said  "Say  that !"  and  I  said  it. 

Lise.  Do  you  think  then  that  you're  doing  her  a  wrong 
if  you  leave  her  for  an  hour  or  two? 

Daughter.  I  don't  think  that  she  would  miss  me,  be- 
cause when  I  am  at  home  she's-  always  got  some  fault 
to  find  with  me.  But  I  should  find  it  painful  if  I  went 
to  a  house  when  she  wasn't  allowed  to  come  too. 

Lise.  Do  you  mean  to  say  you've  thought  of  the  pos- 
sibility of  her  visiting  us  ? 

Daughter.  No — God  forgive  me,  I  never  thought  of  it 
for  a  moment. 

Lise.     But  supposing  you  were  to  get  married? 

Daughter.     I  shall  never  get  married. 

Lise.  Has  your  mother  taught  you  to  say  that  as  well  ? 
•  Daughter.  Yes,  probably.  She  has  always  warned  me 
of  men. 

Lise.    Of  married  men  as  well? 

Daughter.     Presumably. 

Lise.  Look  here,  Helen ;  you  should  really  emancipate 
yourself. 

Daughter.  Ugh !  I  haven't  the  faintest  desire  to  be  a 
new  woman. 


126 

Lise.  No,  I  don't  mean  that.  But  you  must  free  your- 
self from  a  position  of  dependence  which  you  have  grown 
out  of,  and  which  may  make  you  unhappy  for  life. 

Daughter.  I  scarcely  think  I  shall  ever  be  able  to.  Just 
consider  how  I've  been  tied  down  to  my  mother  since  I 
was  a  child ;  that  I've  never  dared  to  think  a  thought  that 
wasn't  hers ;  have  never  wished  anything  but  her  wishes. 
I  know  that  it's  a  handicap;  that  it  stands  in  my  way, 
but  I  can't  do  anything  against  it. 

Lise.  And  if  your  mother  goes  to  rest,  one  fine  day, 
you'll  be  all  alone  in  the  world. 

Daughter.    That's  how  I  shall  find  myself. 

Lise.  But  you've  got  no  set,  no  friend ;  and  no  one 
can  live  as  lonely  as  all  that.  You  must  find  some  firm 
support.  Have  you  never  been  in  love  ? 

Daughter.  I  don't  know.  I've  never  dared  to  think 
of  anything  like  that,  and  mother  has  never  allowed  young 
men  even  to  look  at  me.  Do  you  yourself  think  of  such 
things  ? 

Lise.  Yes.  If  anyone's  fond  of  me  I  should  like  to 
have  him. 

Daughter.  You'll  probably  marry  your  cousin  Ger- 
hard. 

Lise.  I  shall  never  do  that — because  he  does  not  love 
me. 

Daughter.    Not  love  you  ? 

Lise.    No ;  because  he's  fond  of  you. 

Daughter.     Me  ? 

Lise.  Yes — and  he  has  commissioned  me  to  inquire 
if  he  can  call  on  you. 

Daughter.  Here  ?  No,  that's  impossible.  And  besides, 
do  you  think  I  would  stand  in  your  way?  Do  you  think 
I  could  supplant  you  in  his  regard,  you  who  are  so  pretty, 
so  delicate.  [Takes  LISE'S  hand  in  hers.]  What  a  hand! 
And  the  wrists!  I  saw  your  foot  when  we  were  in  the 
Bath-house  together.  [Falls  on  her  knees  before  LISE, 


MOTHERLY   LOVE  127 

who  has  sat  doun.]  A  foot  on  which  there  isn't  even  a 
crooked  nail,  on  which  the  toes  are  as  round  and  as  rosy 
as  a  baby's  hand.  [Kisses  LISE'S  foot.]  You  belong  to 
the  nobility — you're  made  of  different  stuff  from  what 
I  am. 

Lise.  Leave  off,  please,  and  don't  talk  so  sillily.  [Gets 
up.]  If  you  only  knew — but 

Daughter.  And  I'm  sure  you're  as  good  as  you're 
beautiful ;  we  always  think  that  down  below  here  when 
we  look  up  at  you  above  there,  with  your  delicate  chis- 
eled features,  where  trouble  hasn't  made  any  wrinkles, 
where  envy  and  jealousy  have  not  drawn  their  hateful 
lines 

Lise.  Look  here,  Helen;  I  really  think  you're  quite 
mad  on  me. 

Daughter.  Yes,  I  am  that,  too.  I  wish  I  were  like 
you  a  bit,  just  as  a  miserable  whitlow-grass  is  like  an 
anemone,  and  that's  why  I  see  in  you  my  better  self, 
something  that  I  should  like  to  be  and  never  can  be.  You 
have  tripped  into  my  life  during  the  last  summer  days 
as  lightly  and  as  delicately  as  an  angel;  now  the 
autumn's  come :  the  day  after  to-morrow  we  go  back  to 
town — then  we  shan't  know  each  other  any  more — and 
we  mustn't  know  each  other  any  more.  You  can  never 
draw  me  up,  dear,  but  I  can  draw  you  down — and  I  don't 
want  to  do  that !  I  want  to*  have  you  so  high,  so  high 
and  so  far  away,  that  I  can't  see  your  blemishes.  And 
so  good-bye,  Lise,  my  first  and  only  friend. 

Lise.  No,  that's  enough.  Helen,  do  you  know — who 
I  am  ?  Well — I — am  your  sister. 

Daughter.    You What  can  you  mean? 

Lise.    We  have — the  same  father. 

Daughter.  And  you  are  my  sister,  my  little  sister? 
But  what  is  my  father  then?  But  of  course  he  must  be 
captain  of  a  yacht,  because  your  father  is  one.  How  silly 


128  MOTHERLY  LOVE 

I  am!  But  then  he  married,  after.  Is  he  kind  to  you? 
He  wasn't  to  my  mother. 

Lise.  You  don't  know.  But  aren't  you  awfully  glad 
to  have  found  a  little  sister — one  too  who  isn't  so  very 
loud? 

Daughter.  Oh,  rather ;  I'm  so  glad  that  I  really  don't 
know  what  to  say.  [Embrace.]  But  I  really  daren't  be 
properly  glad  because  I  don't  know  what's  going  to  hap- 
pen after  all  this.  What  will  mother  say,  and  what  \\ill 
it  be  like  if  we  meet  papa? 

Lise.  Just  leave  your  mother  to  me.  She  can't  be  far 
away  now.  And  you  keep  in  the  background  till  you 
are  wanted.  And  now  come  and  give  me  a  kiss,  little  'un. 
[They  kiss.] 

Daughter.  My  sister.  How  strange  the  word  sounds, 
just  like  the  word  father  when  one  has  never  uttered  it. 

Lise.  Don't,  let's  go  on  chattering  now,  but  let's  stick 
to  the  point.  Do  you  think  that  your  mother  would  still 
refuse  her  permission-  if  we  were  to  invite  you — to  come 
and  see  your  sister  and  your  father? 

Daughter.  Without  my  mother  ?  Oh,  she  hates  your — 
my  father  so  dreadfully. 

Lise.  But  suppose  she  has  no  reason  to  do  so?  If 
you  only  knew  how  full  the  world  is  of  concoctions  and 
lies  and  mistakes  and  misunderstandings.  My  father  used 
to  tell  the  story  of  a  chum  he  used  to  have  when  he 
first  went  to  sea  as  a  cadet.  A  gold  watch  was  stolen 
from  one  of  the  officers'  cabins  and — God  knows  why ! — 
suspicion  fell  on  the  cadet.  His  mates  avoided  him,  prac- 
tically sent  him  to  Coventry,  and  that  embittered  him  to 
such  an  extent  that  he  became  impossible  to  associate 
with,  got  mixed  up  in  a  row  and  had  to  leave.  Two  years 
afterward  the  thief  was  discovered,  in  the  person  of  a 
boatswain  ;  but  no  satisfaction  could  be  given  to  the  inno- 
cent boy,  because  people  had  only  been  suspicious  of  him. 
And  the  suspicion  will  stick  to  him  for  the  rest  of  his 


MOTHERLY  LOVE  129 

life,  although  it  was  refuted,  and  the  wretch  still  keeps 
a  nickname  which  was  given  to  him  at  the  time.  His 
life  grew  up  like  a  house  that's  built  and  based  on  its 
own  bad  fame,  and  when  the  false  foundation  is  cut  away 
the  building  remains  standing  all  the  same ;  it  floated  in 
the  air  like  the  castle  in  "The  Arabian  Nights."  You  see 
— that's  what  happens  in  the  world.  But  even  worse 
things  can  happen,  as  in  the  case  of  that  instrument  maker 
in  Arboga,  who  got  the  name  of  being  an  incendiary  be- 
cause his  house  had  been  set  fire  to ;  or  as  happened  to  a 
certain  Anderson,  whom  people  called  Thief  Anders  be- 
cause he  had  been  the  victim  of  a  celebrated  burglary. 

Daughter.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  my  father  hasn't 
been  what  I  always  thought  he  was? 

Lise.    Yes,  that's  just  it. 

Daughter.  This  is  how  I  see  him  sometimes  in  dreams, 
since  I  lost  all  recollection  of  him — isn't  he  fairly  tall, 
with  a  dark  beard  and  big  blue  sailor  eyes? 

Lise.    Yes — more  or  less ! 

Daughter.  And  then — wait,  now  I  remember.  Do  you 
see  this  watch?  There's  a  little  compass  fastened  on  to 
the  chain,  and  on  the  compass  at  the  north  there's  an  eye. 
tWho  gave  me  that  ? 

Lise.    Your  father.    I  was  there  when  he  bought  it. 

Daughter.  Then  it's  he  whom  I've  seen  so  often  in 
the  theater  when  I  was  playing.  He  always  sat  in  the 
left  stage  box,  and  held  his  opera  glasses  trained  on  me. 
I  never  dared  to  tell  mother  because  she  was  always  so 
very  nervous  about  me.  And  once  he  threw  me  flowers — 
tbut  mother  burned  them.  Do  you  think  it  was  he? 

Lise.  It  was  he ;  you  can  count  on  it  that  during  all 
•  these  years  his  eye  has  followed  you  like  the  eye  of  the 
needle  on  the  compass. 

Daughter.  And  you  tell  me  that  I  shall  see  him — that 
he  wants  to  meet  me?  It's  like  a  fairy  tal* 


130  MOTHERLY   LOVE 

Lise.  The  fairy  tale's  over  now.  I  hear  your  mother. 
You  get  back — I'm  going  first,  to  face  the  fire. 

Daughter.  Something  dreadful's  going  to  happen  now, 
I  feel  it.  Why  can't  people  agree  with  each  other  and 
be  at  peace?  Oh,  if  only  it  were  all  over!  If  mamma 
would  only  be  nice.  I  will  pray  to  God  outside  there  to 
make  her  soft-hearted — but  I'm  certain  He  can't  do  it — I 
don't  know  why. 

Lise.  He  can  do  it,  and  He  will,  if  you  can  only  have 
faith,  have  a  little  faith  in  happiness  and  your  own 
strength. 

Daughter.  Strength?  What  for?  To  be  selfish?  I 
can't  do  it.  And  the  enjoyment  of  a  happiness  that  is 
bought  at  the  cost  of  someone  else's  unhappiness  cannot 
be  lasting. 

Lise.     Indeed?    Now  go  out. 

Daughter.  How  can  you  possibly  believe  that  this  will 
turn  out  all  right? 

Lise.    Hush ! 

SCENE  IV 
Previous  characters.    The  MOTHER 

.X 

Lise.    Madam. 

Mother.     Miss — if  you  don't  mind. 

Lise.     Your  daughter 

Mother.  Yes,  I  have  a  daughter,  even  though  I'm  only 
a  "Miss,"  and  indeed  that  happens  to  many  of  us,  and 
I'm  not  a  bit  ashamed  of  it.  But  what's  it  all  about? 

Lise.  The  fact  is,  I'm  commissioned  to  ask  you  if 
Miss  Helen  can  join  in  an  excursion  which  some  visitors 
have  got  up. 

Mother.    Hasn't  Helen  herself  answered  you? 

Lise.  Yes ;  she  has  very  properly  answered  that  I 
should  address  myself  to  you. 


MOTHERLY   LOVE  131 

Mother.  THat  wasn't  a  straightforward  answer.  Helen, 
my  child,  do  you  want  to  join  a  party  to  which  your 
mother  isn't  invited  ? 

Daughter.    Yes,  if  you  allow  it. 

Mother.  If  I  allow  it !  How  can  I  decide  what  a  big 
girl  like  you  is  to  do  ?  You  yourself  must  tell  the  young 
lady  what  you  want;  if  you  want  to  leave  your  mother 
alone  in  disgrace,  while  you  gad  about  and  have  a  good 
time;  if  you  want  people  to  ask  after  mamma,  and  for 
you  to  have  to  try  and  wriggle  out  of  the  answer:  "She 
has  been  left  out  of  the  invitation,  because  and  because 
and  because."  Now  say  what  you  really  want  to  do. 

Lise.  My  dear  lady,  don't  let's  beat  about  the  bush. 
I  know  perfectly  well  the  view  Helen  takes  of  this  busi- 
ness, and  I  also  know  your  method  of  getting  her  to  make 
that  particular  answer  which  happens  to  suit  you.  If 
you  are  as  fond  of  your  daughter  as  you  say  you  are, 
you  ought  to  wish  what  is  best  for  her,  even  though 
it  might  be  humiliating  for  you. 

Mother.  Look  here,  my  girl ;  I  know  what  your  name 
is,  and  who  you  are,  even  though  I  haven't  had  the  privi- 
lege of  being  introduced  to  you ;  but  I  should  really  like 
to  know  what  a  girl  of  your  years  has  got  to  teach  a 
woman  of  mine. 

Lise.  Who  knows?  For  the  last  six  years,  since  my 
mother  died,  I  have  spent  all  my  time  in  bringing  up  my 
young  sisters  and  brothers,  and  I've  found  out  that  there 
are  people  who  never  learn  anything  from  life,  however 
old  they  get. 

Mother.    What  do  you  mean  ?* 

Lise.  I  mean  this.  Your  daughter  has  now  got  an 
opportunity  of  taking  her  place  in-  the  world ;  of  either 
getting  recognition  for  her  talent  or  of  contracting  an 
alliance  with  a  young  man  in  good  position. 

Mother.  That  sounds  all  very  fine,  but  what  do  you 
propose  to  do  about  me? 


132  MOTHERLY   LOVE 

Lise.  You're  not  the  point,  your  daughter  is!  Can't 
you  think  about  her  for  a  single  minute  without  imme- 
diately thinking  of  yourself? 

Mother.  Ah,  but,  mind  you,  when  I  think  of  myself 
I  think  of  my  daughter  at  the  same  time,  because  she  has 
learned  to  love  her  mother. 

Lise.  I  don't  think  so.  She  depends  on  you  because 
you've  shut  her  off  from  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  she 
must  have  someone  to  depend  on,  since  you've  stolen  her 
away  from  her  father. 

Mother.    What's  that  you  say? 

Lise.  That  you  took  the  child  away  from  her  father 
when  he  refused  to  marry  you,  because  you  hadn't  been 
faithful  to  him.  You  then  prevented  him  from  seeing 
his  child,  and  avenged  your  own  misconduct  on  him  and 
upon  your  child. 

Mother.  Helen,  don't  you  believe  a  single  word  of 
anything  that  she  says — that  I  should  live  to  see  such  a 
day !  For  a  stranger  to  intrude  into  my  house  and  insult 
me  in  the  presence  of  my  own  child ! 

Daughter.  [Comes  forward.]  You  have  no  business 
to  say  anything  bad  about  my  mother. 

Lise.  It's  impossible  to  do  otherwise,  if  I'm  to  say 
anything  good  about  my  father.  Anyway  I  observe  that 
the  conversation  is  nearly  over,  so  allow  me  to  give  you 
one  or  two  pieces  of  advice.  Get  rid  of  the  procuress 
who  finds  herself  so  at  home  here  under  the  name  of 
Aunt  Augusta  if  you  don't  want  your  daughter's  reputa- 
tion to  be  absolutely  ruined.  That's  tip  number  one. 
Further,  put  in  order  all  your  receipts  for  the  money 
which  you  had  from  my  father  for  Helen's  education, 
because  settlement  day's  precious  near.  That's  tip  num- 
ber two.  And  now  for  an  extra  tip.  Leave  off  perse- 
cuting your  daughter  with  your  company  in  the  street 
and,  above  all,  at  the  theater,  because  if  you  don't  she's 
barred  from  any  engagement;  and  then  you'll  go  about 


MOTHERLY   LOVE  133 

trying  to  sell  her  favors,  just  as,  up  to  the  present,  you've 
been  trying  to  buy  back  your  lost  respectability  at  the  ex- 
pense of  her  father. 

Mother.     [Sits,  crushed.] 

Daughter.  [To  LISE.]  Leave  this  house.  You  find 
nothing  sacred,  not  even  motherhood. 

Lise.    A  sacred  motherhood,  I  must  say ! 

Daughter.  It  seems  now  as  though  you've  only  come 
into  this  house  to  destroy  us,  and  not  for  a  single  minute 
to  put  matters  right. 

Lise.  Yes,  I  did!  I  came  here  to— to  put  right  the 
good  name  of  my  father,  who  was  perfectly  guiltless — 
as  guiltless  as  that  incendiary  whose  house  had  been  set 
on  fire.  I  came  also  to  put  you  right,  you  who've  been 
the  victim  of  a  woman  whose  one  and  only  chance  of 
rehabilitation  is  by  retiring  to  a  place  where  she  won't 
be  disturbed  by  anybody,  and  where  she  on  her  side  won't 
disturb  anybody's  peace.  That's  why  I  came.  I  have 
done  my  duty.  Good-bye. 

Mother.  Miss  Lise— -don't  go  before  I've  said  one 
thing — you  came  here,  apart  from  all  the  other  tomfool- 
ery, to  invite  Helen  out  to  your  place. 

Lise.  Yes.  She  was  to  meet  the  director  of  the  Im- 
perial Theater,  who  takes  quite  an  interest  in  her. 

Mother.  What's  that?  The  director?  And  you've 
never  mentioned  a  word  about  it.  Yes — Helen  may  go — 
alone.  Yes,  without  me ! 

Daughter.     [Makes  a  gesture.] 

Lise.  Well,  after  all,  it  was  only  human  nature  that 
you  should  hare  carried  on  like  that.  Helen,  you  must 
come,  do  you  see? 

Daughter.    Yes,  but  now  I  don't  want  to  any  more. 

Mother.    What  are  you  talking  about? 

Daughter.  No,  I'm  not  fitted  for  society.  I  shall  never 
feel  comfortable  anywhere  where  my  mother  is  despised. 

Mother.     Stuff  and  nonsense !    You  surely  ain't  going 


134  MOTHERLY   LOVE 

to  go  and  cut  your  own  throat?  Now  just  you  go  and 
dress  so  as  to  look  all  right! 

Daughter.  No,  I  can't,  mother.  I  can't  leave  you  now 
that  I  know  everything.  I  shall  never  have  another  happy 
hour.  I  can  never  believe  in  anything  again. 

Lise.  [To  MOTHER.]  Now  you  shall  reap  what  you 
have  sown — if  one  day  a  man  comes  and  makes  your 
daughter  his  bride,  then  you'll  be  alone  in  your  old  age, 
and  then  you'll  have  time  to  be  sorry  for  your  foolishness. 
Good-bye.  [Goes  and  kisses  HELEN'S  forehead.]  Good- 
bye, sister. 

Daughter.    Good-bye. 

Lise.  Look  me  in  the  face  and  try  and  seem  as  though 
you  had  some  hope  in  life. 

Daughter.  I  can't.  I  can't  thank  you  either  for  your 
good-will,  for  you  have  given  me  more  pain  than  you 
know — you  woke  me  with  a  shake  when  I  lay  in  the  sun- 
shine by  a  woodland  precipice  and  slept. 

Lise.  Give  me  another  chance,  and  I'll  wake  you  with 
songs  and  flowers.  Good  night.  Sleep  well.  [Exit. 

SCENE  V 
Previous  characters.    Later  the  DRESSER 

Mother.  An  angel  of  light  in  white  garments,  T  sup- 
pose! No!  She's  a  devil,  a  regular  devil!  And  you! 
How  silly  you've  been  behaving!  What  madness  next, 
I  wonder !  Playing  the  sensitive  when  other  people's  hides 
are  so  thick. 

Daughter.  To  think  of  your  being  able  to  tell  me  all 
those  untruths.  Deceiving  me  so  that  I  talked  thus  about 
my  father  during  so  many  years. 

Mother.  Oh,  come  on !  It's  no  good  crying  over  spilt 
milk. 

Daughter.    And  then  again,  Aunt  Augusta ! 


MOTHERLY   LOVE  135 

Mother.  Stop  it.  Aunt  Augusta  is  a  most  excellent 
woman,  to  whom  you  are  under  a  great  obligation. 

Daughter.  That's  not  true  either — it  was  my  father, 
I'm  sure,  who  had  me  educated. 

Mother.  Well,  yes,  it  was,  but  I  too  have  to  live. 
You're  so  petty!  And  you're  vindictive  as  well.  Can't 
you  forget  a  little  taradiddle  like  that  ?  Hello !  Augus- 
ta's turned  up  already.  Come  along,  now  let  us  humble 
folks  amuse  ourselves  as  best  as  we  can. 


SCENE  VI 

Previous  Characters.    DRESSER. 

Dresser.  Yes,  it  was  he  right  enough.  You  see,  I'd 
guessed  quite  right. 

Mother.  Oh,  well,  don't  let's  bother  about  the  black- 
guard. 

Daughter.  Don't  speak  like  that,  mother;  it's  not  a 
bit  true ! 

Dresser.    What's  not  true? 

Daughter.  Come  along.  We'll  play  cards.  I  can't  pull 
down  the  wall  which  you've  taken  so  many  years  to  build 
up.  Come  along  then.  [She  sits  down  at  the  card  table 
and  begins  to  shuffle  the  cards.] 

Mother.  Well,  you've  come  to  your  senses  at  last,  my 
gal.  [Curtain. 


PARIA 


Mr.  X.,  an  archaeologist  ) 

Mr.  Y.,  a  traveler  from  America)  M'aale-aged  men. 


PARIA 


SCENERY 

Simple  room  in  the  country;  door  and  windows  at  the 
back  looking  out  on  a  landscape.  In  the  middle  of  the 
floor  a  big  dining  table  with  books,  writing  materials, 
archaeological  implements  on  one  side;  microscope,  etymo- 
logical cabinet,  flask  of  spirits  on  the  other.  On  the  left 
a  bookcase;  otherwise  the  furniture  of  the  house  of  a  rich 
peasant. 

Mr.  Y.  comes  in  with  a  butterfly  net  and  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves; goes  straight  up  to  the  bookcase  and  takes  down 
a  book,  which  he  starts  reading.  The  bells  ring  after 
service  in  the  local  church;  the  landscape  and  the  room 
are  Hooded  with  sunlight. 

Now  and  again  the  hens  are  to  be  heard  clucking  out- 
side. Enter  Mr.  X.  in  his  shirt-sleeves. 

Mr.  Y.  gives  a  violent  start,  in  turn  puts  the  book  down 
and  takes  it  up — pretends  to  look  for  another  book  on  the 
shelf. 

Mr.  X.  What  oppressive  weather!  I  quite  think  we 
shall  have  thunder. 

Mr.  Y.     Re-ally,  old  man  ?    Why  do  you  think  so  ? 

Mr.  X.  The  bells  are  ringing-  so  dully — the  flies  are 
stinging,  the  hens  are  clucking,  I  should  be  out  fishing, 
but  couldn't  find  a  worm.  Don't  you  feel  nervous  ? 

Mr.  Y.     [Reflectively.']     I?    Oh  no! 

Mr.  X.  My  dear  man,  you  look  the  whole  time  as 
though  you  were  expecting  a  regular  thunderstorm. 

Mr.  Y.     [Gives  a  start.]     Do  I? 

139 


140  PARIA 

Mr.  X.  Well,  you'll  be  leaving  to-morrow  with  me. 
What's  the  news?  Here's  the  post.  [Takes  up  a  letter 
from  the  table.]  Ah !  My  heart  beats  like  anything  each 
time  I  open  a  letter — nothing  but  debts,  debts,  debts. 
Have  you  ever  been  in  debt  ? 

Mr.  Y.     [Shifting  about.]     No. 

Mr.  X.  Quite  so,  then  my  dear  chap,  you've  no  idea 
what  I  feel  like  when  unpaid  bills  come  in.  [He  reads 
letter.]  Rent  unpaid,  landlord  on  the  warpath,  wife  in 
despair.  And  I  who  sit  here  up  to  my  ears  in  gold. 
[Opens  an  iron-bound  chest  which  is  on  the  table  on  either 
side  of  -which  the  two  men  are  sitting.]  Look  here ;  I've 
got  here  about  six  thousand  kronors'  worth  of  gold  which 
I  dug  up  in  fourteen  days  !  I  only  want  these  armlets  here 
for  the  three  hundred  and  fifty  kronors  that  I  actually 
require.  And  with  all  this  I  ought  to  do  myself  thun- 
dering well.  I  ought,  of  course,  at  once  to  get  drawings 
made,  and  blocks  cut  for  my  book,  and  then  get  it  pub- 
lished, and  then  travel.  Why  don't  I  do  it,  do  you  think  ? 

Mr.  Y.    You  are  afraid  of  being  discovered. 

Mr.  X.  Perhaps  that's  it.  But  don't  you  think  that  a 
man  of  my  intelligence  ought  to  be  able  to  work  it  so 
that  he's  not  discovered  ?  I  just  went  alone — without  wit- 
nesses— rummaged  about  there  beyond  the  hills.  Would 
there  be  anything  strange  in  my  filling  my  pockets  a  bit  ? 

Mr.  Y.  Quite  so,  but  selling  would  probably  be  par- 
ticularly risky. 

Mr.  X.  Ah!  ah!  I  should  of  course  melt  it  all  down 
and  coin  good  golden  ducats — full  weight,  of  course. 

Mr.  Y.    Of  course. 

Mr.  X.  You  can  quite  understand  that,  if  I  were 
running  a  false  mint,  well,  there'd  be  no  need  for  me  to 
dig  up  my  gold.  [Pause.]  It's  remarkable,  at  all  events  ; 
if  another  person  were  to  do  this,  which  I  can't  recon- 
cile myself  to,  why  I  should  absolve  him,  but  I  can't  ab- 
solve myself.  I  could  make  a  brilliant  defence  of  the 


PARIA  141 

thief,  prove  that  gold  was  res  nullius,  or  nobody's,  that 
it  came  into  the  earth  at  a  time  when  there  was  no  such 
thing  as  property,  that  it  shouldn't  by  right  belong  to 
anybody  else  except  the  first-comer,  since  the  contents  of 
the  earth  existed  a  long  time  before  landowners  made 
their  artificial  laws  of  real  property. 

Mr.  Y.  And  you  would  make  your  case  all  the  more 
plausible  if,  as  you  say,  the  thief  did  not  steal  from  want, 
but  as  a  matter  of  collecting  mania,  as  a  matter  of  pure 
scholarship,  because  of  his  ambition  to  make  a  discovery. 
Isn't  that  so? 

Mr.  X.  You  mean  that  I  shouldn't  get  him  off  if  he 
had  stolen  out  of  want  ?  No,  that's  just  the  one  case  for 
which  there  is  no  excuse.  That's  pure  theft. 

Mr.  Y.    And  wouldn't  you  excuse  that? 

Mr.  X.  How  ?  Excuse  ?  I  couldn't,  for  there  are  no 
excuses  in  law.  But  I  must  confess  that  I  should  find  it 
hard  to  prosecute  a  collector  for  theft,  because  he  made 
an  archaeological  discovery  in  somebody  else's  ground 
which  he  didn't  have  in  his  own  collection. 

Mr.  Y.  Then  vanity  and  ambition  are  to  serve  as  an 
excuse  where  want  is  no  excuse? 

Mr.  X.  And  all  the  same  want  should  be  the  valid,  the 
only  excuse.  But  it's  like  this,  I  can't  alter,  any  more 
than  I  can  alter  my  own  will  not  to  steal  in  any  such  case. 

Mr.  Y.  You  count  it  then,  as  a  great  merit  of  yours 
that  you  can't — h'm — steal. 

Mr.  X.  It's  an  irresistible  something  in  my  character, 
just  as  the  craving  to  steal  is  something  irresistible  in 
other  people,  and  therefore  it's  no  virtue.  I  cannot  do  it 
and  he  cannot  refrain  from  doing  it — you  quite  under- 
stand, my  dear  fellow?  I  covet  this  gold  and  want  to 
possess  it.  Why  don't  I  take  it,  then  ?  I  can't.  It's  sim- 
ply disability,  and  something  lacking  is  scarcely  a  merit. 
That's  what  it  is.  [Beats  on  the  chest.] 

[It  has  rained  in  streams  outside  in  the  country,  a:id 


142  PARIA 

now  and  then  the  room  becomes  dark.  The  darkness  is 
that  of  approaching  thunder.] 

Mr.  Y.  It's  awfully  stuffy.  I  think  we  shall  have 
thunder.  [Mr.  Y.  rises  and  closes  the  door  and  win- 
dows.} 

Mr.  X.    Are  you  frightened  of  thunder? 

Mr.  Y.    One  has  to  be  careful.     [Pause.] 

Mr.  X.  You  are  a  queer  fellow.  You  spring  yourself 
on  me  here  a  fortnight  ago,  introduce  yourself  as  a 
Swedish  American  on  an  etymological  journey  for  a 
museum. 

Mr.  Y.     Don't  bother  yourself  about  me. 

Mr.  X.  That's  how  you  always  go  on  when  I  get  tired 
of  talking  about  myself  and  want  to  show  you  some  little 
attention.  That's  perhaps  why  you're  so  sympathetic  to 
me,  because  you  let  me  speak  so  much  about  myself.  We 
became  old  friends  in  no  time ;  you  had  no  angles  I  could 
knock  up  against,  no  bristles  to  prick  me  with.  It  wasn't 
just  so  much  that  your  whole  person  was  so  full  of  a 
deference  which  only  a  highly  refined  man  could  mani- 
fest ;  you  never  made  any  row  when  you  came  home  late ; 
never  made  a  noise  when  you  got  up  in  the  morning; 
didn't  bother  about  trifles ;  caved  in  when  there  was  any 
chance  of  a  squabble — in  a  word,  you  were  the  ideal  com- 
panion. But  you  were  much  too  yielding,  much  too  nega- 
tive, much  too  silent,  for  me  not  to  think  about  it  in  the 
long  run — and  you're  as  funky  and  nervous  as  they're 
made.  That  looks  as  though  you  had  a  shadow  knocking 
about  somewhere.  I  tell  you  what — when  I  sit  here  in 
front  of  the  mirror,  and  look  at  your  back,  it's  as  though 
I  saw  another  man  altogether.  [Mr.  Y.  turns  round  and 
looks  in  the  looking  glass.]  Yes;  you  can't  see  yourself 
from  the  back.  From  the  front  view  you  look  like  a 
straight  man  going  about  to  face  his  life  with  his  head 
up,  but  the  back  view — no,  I  don't  want  to  be  offensive — > 
but  you  look  as  though  you  carried  some  burden,  as 


PARIA  143 

though  you  were  flinching  from  some  blow,  and  when  I 
see  the  cross  of  your  red  braces  on  your  shirt — then  you 
look  like  one  big  brand,  an  export  brand  on  a  package. 

Mr.  Y.  [Rises.]  I  think  I  shall  suffocate,  if  the 
thunderstorm  doesn't  break  soon. 

Mr.  X.  That'll  come  in  a  minute,  you  just  steady  on. 
And  then  the  nape  of  your  neck.  It  looks  as  though 
there  were  another  face  there,  but  of  another  type  than 
yours;  you  are  so  awfully  small  between  the  ears  that  I 
sometimes  wonder  what  race  you  are.  [It  lightens.] 
That  looks  as  though  it  had  struck  the  inspector's  place. 

Mr.  Y.     [Anxious.]     The  inspector's  place? 

Mr.  X.  Yes,  that's  what  it  looks  like.  But  all  this 
thunderstorm  business  doesn't  matter  to  us.  Just  you  sit 
down  and  let's  have  a  chat,  as  you  are  leaving  to-morrow. 
It's  a  queer  thing  that  you,  with  whom  I  became  quite 
pally  in  almost  no  time,  are  one  of  those  people  whose 
faces  I  can't  call  to  mind  when  they  aren't  there.  When 
you're  out  of  doors,  and  I  remember  you,  I  think  all 
the  time  of  another  friend  of  mine,  who  isn't  really  like 
you,  though  at  the  same  time  there  is  a  certain  likeness. 

Mr.  Y.    Who  is  it? 

Mr.  X.  I  won't  mention  his  name.  However,  I  always 
used  to  feed  at  the  same  place  many  years  ago,  and  I 
met  then,  over  the  hors  d'ceuzres,  a  little  blond  man  with 
pale,  agonized  eyes.  He  had  an  extraordinary  power  of 
being  in  the  front  of  any  crush  without  either  pushing  or 
being  pushed ;  he  could  take  a  slice  of  bread  from  yards 
away  even  though  he  stood  by  the  door;  he  always 
seemed  happy  to  be  with  people,  and  when  he  found  a 
friend  he  would  follow  him  about  with  hysterical  enthu- 
siasm, embrace  him  and  slap  him  on  his  back  as  though 
he  hadn't  met  a  human  being  for  years  and  years.  If 
anyone  trampled  on  him,  it  would  be  as  though  he  begged 
his  pardon  for  being  in  the  way.  During  the  two  years 
I  kept  on  seeing  him  I  amused  myself  by  guessing  his 


144  PARIA 

profession  and  character,  but  I  never  asked  him  what 
he  was,  because  I  didn't  want  to  know,  because  my  hobby 
would  have  gone  bust  as  soon  as  I  did.  This  man  had 
the  same  characteristic  as  you — that  of  being  nonde- 
script. Sometimes  I'd  put  him  down  as  a  grammar  school 
usher,  a  subaltern,  a  chemist,  a  clerk  of  the  peace,  or  one 
of  the  secret  police,  and  he  seemed,  like  you,  to  be  made 
up  of  two  heterogeneous  pieces  which  fitted  in  front  but 
not  at  the  back. 

One  day  it  happened  I  read  in  the  papers  about  a  big 
check  forgery  by  a  well-known  civil  servant.  I  then  knew 
that  my  nondescript  friend  had  been  the  partner  of  the 
forger's  brother,  and  that  his  name  was  Stroman,  and  in 
that  way  I  found  out  that  the  aforesaid  Stroman  had  pre- 
viously carried  on  business  as  a  lending  library,  but  that 
he  was  nov^a.  police  court  reporter  on  a  big  daily.  But 
how  could  I  establish  any  connection  between  the  forgery, 
the  police  and  his  nondescript  demeanor?  I  don't  know, 
but  when  I  asked  a  friend  if  Stroman  was  punished  he 
neither  answered  no  nor  yes ;  he  simply  didn't  know. 
[Pause.] 

Mr.Y.    Well?    Was  he— punished? 

Mr.  X.    No,  he  went  scot-free.     [Pause.] 

Mr.  Y.  Don't  you  think  that  may  have  been  why  the 
police  had  such  a  morbid  fascination  for  him  and  why  he 
was  so  frightened  of  knocking  up  against  his  fellow-men  ? 

Mr.X.    Yes. 

Mr.  Y.    Do  you  still  keep  up  with  him  ? 

Mr.  X.  No;  and  I  don't  wish  to.  [Pause.]  Would 
you  have  still  kept  up  with  him  if  he  had  been — con- 
victed ? 

Mr.  Y.  Yes — like  a  shot.  [Mr.  Y.  gets  up  and  walks 
up  and  down.] 

Mr.  X.     Sit  still — why  can't  you  sit  still  ? 

Mr.  Y.  Where  did  you  get  your  broad  views  of  hu- 
man conduct?  Are  you  a  Christian? 


PARIA  145 

Mr.  X.  No — can't  you  see  that?  [Mr.  Y.  Facial 
expression.}  The  Christian  asks  for  forgiveness  as  I  ask 
for  punishment — to  restore  the  balance,  or  whatever  you 
call  it.  And  you,  my  friend,  who've  done  your  little 
stretch,  ought  to  know  that  quite  well. 

Mr.  Y.  [Is  nervous  and  stunned.  Looking  at  Mr.  X. 
first  with  wild  hate  and  then  with  wonder  and  admira- 
tion.] How — can — you — know — that  ? 

Mr.  X.    I  can  see  it. 

Mr.  Y.    How  ?    How  can  you  see  it  ? 

Mr.  X.  I  have  taught  myself.  It's  just  a  science,  like 
so  many  others.  But  now  we  won't  talk  about  it  any 
more.  [Looks  at  his  watch,  takes  out  a  paper  for  signa- 
ture, dips  his  pen  in  the  ink  and  hands  it  to  Mr.  Y.]  I 
must  think  of  my  own  business  troubles.  Would  you 
mind  witnessing  my  signature  on  this  bill  which  I  shall 
present  to  the  Malmo  bank  to-morrow  when  I  follow 
you? 

Mr.  Y.    I  don't  intend  to  travel  by  Malmo. 

Mr.  X.    No? 

Mr.  Y.    No. 

Mr.  X.  But  at  all  events  you  can  witness  my  sig- 
nature ? 

Mr.  Y.    No ;  I  never  put  my  name  to  a  piece  of  paper. 

Mr.  X.  Again — that's  the  fifth  time  you've  refused  to 
sign  your  name.  The  first  time  was  on  a  post-receipt — 
that  was  when  I  first  began  to  observe  you ;  now  I  notice 
that  you  are  frightened  of  pen  and  ink.  You  haven't 
sent  off  one  letter  since  we've  been  here ;  only  a  single 
letter-card,  and  that  you  wrote  in  pencil.  Do  you  under- 
stand now  how  I  worked  out  your  lapse?  Again,  that's 
the  seventh  time  you  refused  to  accompany  me  to  Malmo, 
though  you  haven't  been  there  at  all  this  time.  And  all 
the  time  you've  come  here  from  America  simply  to  see 
Malmo.  And  every  morning  you  go  half-a-mile  south- 
ward to  the  windmills  just  so  as  to  see  the  roofs  of 


146  PARIA 

Malmo.  And  you  stand  there,  my  friend,  by  the  right 
window,  and  look  out  through  the  third  pane  of  glass  on 
the  left  counting  from  the  bottom,  so  that  you  get  a  view 
of  the  spires  of  the  castle  and  the  chimney  of  the  prison. 
So  you  see  now  it's  not  a  case  of  my  being  so  smart,  but 
of  your  being  so  dense. 

•Mr.  Y.    Now  you  despise  me  ? 

Mr.X.    No. 

Mr.  Y.    Yes,  you  do ;  you  must  do  so. 

'Mr.  X.  No.  See,  here's  my  hand  on  it.  [Mr.  Y. 
kisses  the  outstretched  hand.  Mr.  X.  takes  back  his  hand.] 
What  bestial  fawning ! 

Mr.  Y.  Forgive  me!  but  you  were  the  first  man,  sir, 
who  held  out  his  hand  to  me  after  he  knew 

Mr.  X.  And  now  you  start  calling  me  "Sir."  It  ap- 
palls me  that,  after  you've  served  your  sentence,  you  don't 
feel  you  can  hold  your  head  up,  and  start  with  a  clean 
sheet,  on  the  level,  just  as  good  as  anybody  else.  Will 
you  tell  me  all  about  it?  Will  you? 

Mr.  Y.  [Wriggles.]  Yes ;  but  you  won't  believe  what 
I  tell  you.  I'll  tell  you  about  it,  and  you'll  see  that  I'm 
not  just  an  ordinary  criminal,  and  you'll  be  convinced 
that  my  fall  took  place,  as  one  says,  against  my  will. 
[Wriggles.]  Just  as  though  jit  came  of  itself — sponta- 
neously— without  free  will  and  as  though  one  couldn't 
help  it.  Let  me  open  the  door  a  little.  I  think  the  thun- 
der has  passed  over. 

Mr.  X.    If  you  wouldn't  mind. 

Mr.  Y.  [Opens  the  door,  then  sits  on  the  table  and 
tells  his  story  with  frigid  enthusiasm,  theatrical  gestures 
and  affected  intonation.}  Yes,  do  you  see,  I  was  a  stu- 
dent at  Lind,  and  once  I  wanted  a  loan  from  the  bank. 
I  had  no  serious  debts,  and  my  governor  had  a  little  prop- 
erty, but  not  much,  you  know.  In  the  meanwhile  I  had 
sent  the  bill  to  another  man  to  back,  and  contrary  to  all 
my  expectations  I  got  it  back  with  a  refusal.  For  a  whole 


PARIA  147 

hour  I  sat  stupefied  by  the  blow ;  you  see,  it  was  a  most 
unpleasant  surprise,  most  unpleasant.  The  document  hap- 
pened to  be  lying-  on  the  table.  Close  by  was  the  letter. 
My  eyes  wandered  first  over  the  fatal  lines  that  contained 
my  doom — as  a  matter  of  fact  it  wasn't  my  death  sen- 
tence, because  I  could  quite  easily  have  got  somebody 
else  to  back  it,  as  a  matter  of  fact  as  many  people  as  I 
wanted,  but,  as  I  said,  it  was  very  unpleasant  as  things 
stood ;  and  as  I  was  sitting  there  in  my  innocence  my  gaze 
became  gradually  riveted  on  that  signature  on  the  letter, 
which,  if  only  in  its  right  place,  would  perhaps  have  saved 
my  future.  The  signature  was  just  a  piece  of  ordinary 
handwriting — you  know  how,  when  you're  thinking  about 
something  else,  you  can  sit  down  and  fill  a  piece  of  blot- 
ting paper  with  absolute  nonsense.  I  had  a  pen  in  my 
hand.  [Takes  up  the  pen.]  See  here,  and,  just  like  this, 
it  began  to  move.  I'm  not  going  to  contend  that  there 
was  anything  mystical — anything  spiritualistic — at  the 
back  of  it,  because  I  don't  believe  in  all  that  stuff ;  it  was 
simply  a  purely  mechanical  thoughtless  process,  as  I  sat 
and  copied  that  pretty  signature  time  after  time — of 
course  without  any  intention  of  making  any  advantage 
out  of  it.  When  the  sheet  had  been  covered  I  had  ac- 
quired a  complete  proficiency  in  signing  the  name. 
[Throws  the  pen  quickly  away.]  And  then  I  forgot  all 
about  it.  All  night  I  slept  deeply  and  heavily,  and  when 
I  woke  up  I  felt  as  though  I  had  dreamed,  but  could  not 
remember  my  dream ;  at  times  it  seemed  as  though  a  door 
were  ajar  and  I  saw  the  writing  table  with  a  bill  on  it 
just  like  mine,  and  when  I  got  up  I  went  straight  up  to 
that  table  just  as  though  I  had  after  mature  considera- 
tion made  the  irrevocable  resolution  to  write  the  name 
on  that  blank  piece  of  paper.  All  thought  of  conse- 
quences— of  risks — had  vanished;  there  was  no  hesita- 
tion— it  was  just  as  though  I  was  fulfilling  a  solemn  duty 
—and  I  wrote.  [Springs  «/>.]  What  could  it  have  been? 


148  PARIA 

Is  it  a  case  of  inspiration  or  suggestion  ?  But  from  whom  ? 
I  had  slept  alone  in  the  room.  Could  it  have  been  the 
primitive  part  of  my  ego,  the  savage  part,  which  was  a 
stranger  to  all  progress,  which  in  the  working  of  my  sub- 
consciousness  during  sleep-  had  come  along  with  its  crim- 
inal will  and  its  inability  to  calculate  the  consequences  of 
an  act  ?  Tell  me,  what  do  you  think  of  the  matter  ? 

Mr.  X.  [Torturing  him.]  Quite  frankly,  your  story 
does  not  satisfy  me  completely.  I  find  gaps  in  it,  but 
that  may  be  because  you  haven't  remembered  the  details, 
and  as  to  criminal  suggestion,  which  I've  read  a  fair 
amount  about,  I'll  try  and  remember — hm!  But  it  all 
comes  to  the  same  thing — you've  served  your  punishment 
— and  you've  had  the  pluck  to  own  up  to  the  error  of 
your  ways.  Now  don't  let's  talk  any  more  about  it. 

Mr.  Y.  No,  no,  no,  we  will  go  on  talking  about  it 
until  I  convince  myself  that  I'm  not  a  criminal. 

Mr.  X.    Haven't  you  done  that? 

Mr.  Y.    No,  I  haven't. 

Mr.  X.  Yes,  you  see,  it's  that  which  bothers  me.  It's 
that  which  bothers  me.  Don't  you  think  that  every  man 
has  a  skeleton  in  his  cupboard?  Haven't  we  all  stolen 
and  lied  as  children?  Yes,  of  course  we  have.  Well, 
one  finds  men  who  remain  children  all  their  lives,  so  that 
they're  unable  to  control  their  criminal  desires.  If  the 
opportunity  but  presents  itself,  one  of  the  type  will  be- 
come a  criminal  immediately.  But  I  can't  understand  why 
you  don't  feel  yourself  innocent.  If  you  look  upon  chil- 
dren as  irresponsible,  you  ought  to  look  upon  criminals 
in  the  same  way.  It's  strange — yes,  it  is  strange,  I  shall 

perhaps  be  sorry  afterwards,  that [Pause.]  I  once 

killed  a  man.  I  did,  and  I  have  never  had  any  qualms. 

Mr.  Y.     [Keenly  interested.]     You — you? 

Mr.  X.  Yes,  I  myself.  Perhaps  you'd  rather  not  shake 
hands  with  a  murderer? 

Mr.  Y.     [Briskly.]     Oh,  what  rot! 


PARIA  149 

Mr.  X.    Yes,  but  I  went  scot-free. 

Mr.  Y.  [With  an  air  of  familiarity  and  superiority.] 
All  the  better  for  you !  How  did  you  dodge  the  coppers  ? 

Mr.  X.  There  was  no  one  to  accuse  me — no  one  to 
suspect  me — there  were  no  witnesses.  The  thing  was  like 
this.  A  friend  of  mine  had  invited  me  one  Christmas  to 
his  place  outside  Upsala  for  the  hunting.  He  sent  to 
drive  me  a  drunken  old  blighter  who  went  to  sleep  upon 
the  box,  drove  bang  into  a  hole  and  upset  in  the  ditch. 
I  won't  say  it  was  a  matter  of  life  and  death,  but  in  a 
fit  of  temper  I  let  him  have  it  in  the  neck  to  wake  him 
up,  with  the  result  that  he  never  woke  up,  but  lay  there 
dead. 

Mr.  Y.  [Slyly.]  Well,  and  didn't  you  give  your- 
self up? 

Mr.  X.  No ;  for  the  following  reasons :  The  man  had 
no  relations  or  other  people  for  whom  his  life  was  neces- 
sary ;  he  had  lived  out  his  vegetable  existence ;  his  place 
could  be  taken  immediately  by  someone  else  who  needed 
it  much  more;  while  on  the  other  hand  I  was  indispen- 
sable to  my  parents'  well-being,  to  my  own — perhaps  to 
science.  The  result  of  the  whole  business  had  already 
cured  me  of  my  penchant  to  punch  people  in  the  neck, 
and  I  didn't  feel  inclined  to  sacrifice  my  own  life  and  that 
of  my  parents  to  satisfy  a  sense  of  abstract  justice. 

Mr.  Y.    I  see.    So  that's  how  you  judge  human  values  ? 

Mr.  X.    In  the  case  in  question,  yes. 

Mr.  Y.  But  how  about  the  consciousness  of  guilt, 
retribution  ? 

Mr.  X.  I  had  no  consciousness  of  guilt ;  I  hadn't  com- 
mitted any  crime.  I'd  taken  and  given  punches  as  a  boy. 
But  what  was  responsible  was  my  ignorance  that  a  fatal 
result  could  be  so  easily  produced  upon  an  old  person. 

Mr.  Y.  Yes — but  killing  by  chance-medley  is  punished 
by  two  years'  hard  labor  all  the  same — just  the  same  as 
— forgery. 


150  PARIA 

Mr.  X.  I've  thought  about  it  enough,  as  you  can  think. 
And  many  a  night  I've  dreamed  I  was  in  prison.  I  say, 
tell  me,  is  it  as  bad  as  they  make  out  to  be  under  lock  and 
key? 

Mr.  Y.  Yes,  my  dear  fellow.  They  first  disfigure  your 
appearance  by  cutting  your  hair,  so  that  if  you  didn't 
look  like  a  criminal  before  you  do  so  afterward,  and  when 
you  look  at  yourself  in  the  glass  you're  convinced  that 
you're  a  murderer. 

Mr.  X.  That's  a  mask  which  can  perhaps  be  taken 
off,  but  it's  not  such  a  bad  idea. 

Mr.  Y.  You  jojce  about  it,  do  you  ?  And  they  reducfc 
your  food  so  that  every  day,  nay,  every  hour,  you  feel 
yourself  further  away  from  life,  and  so  much  nearer  to* 
death.  All  the  vital  functions  are  depressed  and  you  feel 
yourself  dried  up,  and  your  soul,  which  ought  to  be  cured 
and  improved,  is  put  upon  starvation  treatment,  and 
thrust  back  a  thousand  years  of  civilization ;  you  are  only 
allowed  to  read  books  that  have  been  written  for  the 
edification  of  our  antediluvian  ancestors ;  you  can  manage 
to  hear  what's  never  going  to  take  place  in  heaven ;  but 
what  takes  place  on  this  earth  remains  a  sealed  book; 
you  are  taken  away  from  your  environment,  degraded 
from  your  class ;  put  beneath  those  who  are  beneath  you ; 
you  get  visions  of  what  life  was  like  in  the  Age  of  Bronze, 
feel  as  though  you  were  dressed  in  skins  in  a  barbarous 
state — lived  in-  a  cave  and  drank  out  of  a  trough. 

Mr.  X.  Quite  so;  but  it's  only  reasonable  that  if  a 
man's  behaving  as  though  this  were  the  Age  of  Bronze  he 
should  live  in  the  appropriate  costume  of  the  period. 

Mr.  Y.  [Frowns.]  You're  making  fun  of  me,  you 
are.  You  carry  on  like  a  man  in  the  Age  of  Stone,  who 
is  yet  somehow  allowed  to  live  in  an  Age  of  Gold. 

Mr.  X.  [Interrogating  sharply.]  What!  What  do 
you  mean  by  that  expression  of  yours — the  Age  of 
Gold? 


PARIA  151 

'Mr.  Y.     [Slyly.]     Nothing  at  all. 

Mr.  X.  You're  lying,  you  are,  because  you  haven't  the 
pluck  to  say  what  you  really  meant. 

Mr.  Y.  I  haven't  the  pluck!  You  think  that!  I 
showed  some  pluck,  I  think,  when  I  dared  show  myself 
in  this  neighborhood  after  I'd  gone  through  what  I'd 
gone  through.  But  do  you  know  the  worst  part  of  the 
suffering  when  a  man's  inside?  Do  you?  It's  just  this, 
that  the  other  men  aren't  there  too. 
*  Mr.  X.  What  other  men? 

Mr.  Y.    The  men  who  went  scot-free. 

Mr.  X.    Are  you  referring  to  me  ? 

Mr.  Y.    Yes. 

Mr.  X.    I've  not  committed  any  crime. 

Mr.  Y.    Really,  haven't  yeu? 

Mr.  X.    No ;  an  accident  isn't  a  crime. 

Mr.  Y.    I  see :  it's  an  accident  if  you  commit  murder. 

Mr.  X.    I  haven't  committed  murder. 

Mr.  Y.  Really — really !  It's  not  murder,  then,  to  strike 
another  man  dead? 

Mr.  X.  No — not  always.  There's  manslaughter — 
there's  chance-medley — there's  accidental  homicide — and 
there's  the  distinction  between  malice  aforethought  or 
not.  At  all  events,  I'm  quite  afraid  of  you  now — since 
you  belong  to  the  most  dangerous  category  of  humanity 
— the  fools. 

Mr.  Y.  Indeed !  You  imagine  that  I  am  a  fool  ?  Just 
listen.  Would.you  like  a  proof  that  I'm  very  smart  ? 

Mr.  X.    Let* s  hear  it. 

Mr.  Y.  Will  you  acknowledge  that  I  reason  with  both 
shrewdness  and  logic  when  you've  heard  what  I've  got 
to  say  ?  You  have  had  an  accident  which  might  have  got 
you  two  years'  hard  labor ;  you've  escaped  scot-free  from 
the  stigma  of  hard  labor,  and  here  sits  a  man  who  has 
been  the  victim  of  a  misfortune — a  piece  of  unconscious 
suggestion — and  suffered  two  years'  hard  labor.  This 


152  PARIA 

man  can  by  great  scientific  services  wipe  out  the  stigma 
which  he  involuntarily  brought  upon  himself,  but  to  per- 
form those  services  he  must  have  money — a  lot  of  money 
— and  money  at  once. 

Don't  you  think  that  the  other  man — the  man  who  went 
unpunished — should  readjust  the  balance  of  human  life 
in  the  same  way  as  if  he  were  adjudged  liable  to  pay 
compensation?  Don't  you  think  so? 

Mr.X.    [Quietly.]    Yes. 

Mr.  Y.  Now  we  understand  one  another.  [Pause.] 
How  much  do  you  think  fair  ? 

Mr.  X.  Fair.  The  law  provides  that  fifty  kronors 
should  be  the  minimum  compensation,  but  as  the  dead 
man  didn't  leave  any  dependents  your  argument  falls  to 
the  ground. 

Mr.  Y.  No ;  you  won't  understand.  Let  me  make  it 
clearer.  It's  to  me  that  you  must  make  the  compensation. 

Mr.  X.  I've  never  heard  before  that  a  homicide  should 
make  compensation  to  a  forger,  and,  besides,  I  haven't 
found  anybody  to  accuse  me. 

Mr.  Y.    No?    Well,  here  is  someone. 

Mr.  X.  Now  we're  beginning  to  see  how  the  land  lies. 
How  much  do  you  want  to  abet  my  homicide  ? 

Mr.  Y.    Six  thousand  kronors. 

Mr.  X.  That's  too  much.  Where  am  I  to  get  it  from? 
[MR.  Y.  points  to  the  chest.]  I  won't.  I  won't  be  a 
thief. 

Mr.  Y.  Don't  try  to  bluff  me.  Are  you  going  to  tell 
me  that  you  haven't  been  to  that  chest  already  ? 

Mr.  X.  [As  if  to  himself.}  To  think  that  I  could 
have  made  such  a  complete  mistake !  But  that's  the  case 
with  soft  natures.  You  like  soft  natures,  so  you're  apt 
to  believe  that  they  like  you,  and  that's  why  I've  always 
been  on  my  guard  against  anyone  I  liked.  And  so  you're 
absolutely  convinced  that  I  took  the  chest  out  of  the 
ground  ? 


PARIA  153 

Mr.  Y.    Yes,  I'm  certain. 

Mr.  X.  And  you'll  inform  against  me  if  you  don't  get 
six  thousand  kronors. 

Mr.  Y.  No  mistake  about  it — you  can't  get  out  of  it, 
and  it's  not  worth  while  trying. 

Mr.  X.  Do  you  think  that  I  will  give  my  father  a  thief 
for  a  son,  my  wife  a  thief  for  a  husband,  my  children 
a  thief  for  a  father,  my  friends  a  thief  for  a  colleague? 
Not  if  I  know  it.  Now  I  will  go  to  the  police  and  give 
myself  up. 

Mr.  Y.  [Springs  up  and  collects  his  things.]  Wait  a 
bit. 

Mr.  X.    What  f.or? 

Mr.  Y.  [Hesitating.]  I  was  only  thinking — that  it's 
not  necessary  any  more — as  it's  not  necessary  for  me  to 
stay  here — that  I  might  go. 

Mr.  X.  No,  you  don't — sit  down  in  your  place  at  the 
table  where  you  were  before — then  we'll  talk  a  bit  first. 

Mr.  Y.  [Sits  down  after  he  has  taken  up  a  black  coat.] 
What,  what's  going  to  happen  now  ? 

Mr.  X.  [Looks  in  the  mirror  at  the  back  of  MR.  Y.] 
Now  it's  as  clear  as  possible. 

Mr.  Y.    [Nervously.}    What  do  you  see  so  strange? 

Mr.  X.  I  see  in  the  looking-glass  that  you  are  a  thief 
— a  simple,  common  or  garden  thief.  A  few  minutes  ago, 
when  you  sat  there  in  your  white  shirt,  I  just  noticed 
the  books  were  out  of  order  a  bit  in  my  bookcase,  but 
I  couldn't  notice  in  what  way,  as  I  had  to  listen  to  you 
and  observe  you.  But  now  that  you've  become  anti- 
pathetic to  me  my  eyes  have  grown  sharper,  and  now 
that  you've  on  your  black  coat,  which  affords  a  color  foil 
in  the  red  backs  of  the  books,  which  there  wasn't  before 
when  your  red  braces  were  showing,  I  see  that  you've 
been  and  read  your  forgery  story  out  of  Bernheim's 
treatise  on  suggestion,  and  have  put  the  book  back  upside 
down.  So  you  stole  the  story  as  well.  Now  that's  why 


154  PARIA 

I  think  that  I'm  right  in  drawing  the  deduction  that  you 
committed  your  crime  because  you  needed  either  the 
necessities  or  luxuries  of  life. 

Mr.  Y.     Out  of  necessity !    If  you  only  knew ! 

Mr.  X.  If  you  only  knew  in  what  necessity  I  have 
lived,  and  live  still.  But  that's  got  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
But  you've  done  your  stretch,  that's  nearly  certain,  but 
it  was  in  America,  because  it  was  American  prison  life 
that  you  described;  and  another  thing  is  almost  equally 
certain:  that  you  haven't  done  your  term  here. 

Mr.  Y.     How  can  you  say  that? 

Mr.  X.  Wait  till  the  inspector  comes,  then  get  to 
know.  [MR.  Y.  gets  up.]  Look  here,  now !  The  first 
time  I  mentioned  the  inspector,  in  connection  with  a  thun- 
derbolt, you  wanted  to  clear  out.  Besides,  when  a  man 
has  served  in  prison  he  will  never  go  to  a  windmill  every 
day  and  look  at  it,  or  post  himself  behind  a  window-pane 
— in  one  word,  you  are  both  a  punished  and  an  unpun- 
ished criminal.  And  that's  why  you  were  so  unusually 
difficult  to  get  at.  [Pause.] 

Mr.  Y.     [Absolutely  cowed.]     May  I  go  now? 

Mr.  X.    Now  you  may  go. 

Mr.  Y.  [Puts  his  things  together.]  Are  you  angry 
with  me? 

Mr.  X.    Yes.    Would  you  prefer  it  if  I  pitied  you  ? 

Mr.  Y.  [Sulkily.]  Do  you  consider  yourself  better 
than  I  am? 

Mr.  X.  I  certainly  do.  I  am  better  than  you  are.  I 
am  much  smarter  than  you,  and  much  more  useful  than 
you  are  to  the  general  community. 

Mr.  Y.  You  are  very  deep,  but  not  so  deep  as  I  am,  I 
am  in  check  myself,  but  all  the  same  you'll  be  mate  next 
move. 

Mr.  X.  [Fixes  MR.  Y.]  Shall  we  have  another  round? 
What  mischief  are  you  up  to  now? 

Mr.  Y.    That's  my  secret. 


PARIA  155 

Mr.  X.  Let's  have  a  look  at  you — you're  thinking  of 
writing  an  anonymous  letter  to  my  wife  and  telling  her 
about  this  secret  of  mine. 

Mr.  Y.  Yes ;  and  you  can't  stop  me  doing  it.  Put  me 
in  jail  ?  Why,  you  daren't ;  and  so  you've  got  to  let  me 
go ;  and  when  I'm  gone  I  can  do  what  I  want  to  every 
day. 

Mr.  X.  Oh,  you  devil!  You've  found  my  one  weak 
point — do  you  want  to  compel  me  to  become  a  murderer  ? 

Mr.  Y.    You  can't  do  that,  you  wretch ! 

Mr.  X.  You  see,  there's  a  difference  between  one  man 
and  another.  And  you  know  yourself  that  I  can't  do 
things  like  you  do;  that's  where  you  have  the  pull  over 
me.  But  just  consider — supposing  you  make  me  treat 
you  in  the  same  way  that  I  treated  the  coachman.  [Lifts 
up  his  hand  to  deliver  a  blow.] 

Mr.  Y.  [Stares  insolently  at  MR.  X.]  You  can't  do 
it — you  can't  do  it;  just  as  you  couldn't  find  your  salva- 
tion in  that  chest. 

Mr.  X.  You  don't  believe  then  that  I  took  it  out  of 
the  earth? 

Mr.  Y.  You  didn't  have  the  pluck.  Just  as  you  didn't 
have  the  pluck  to  tell  your  wife  that  she'd  married  a 
murderer. 

Mr.  X.  You're  a  different  type  of  man  to  what  I  am 
— whether  you're  stronger  or  weaker  I  don't  know — 
more  criminal  or  not  don't  touch  me.  But  there's  no 
question  about  your  being  more  of  an  ass;  because  you 
were  an  ass  when  you  wrote  in  somebody  else's  name 
instead  of  begging,  as  I  managed  to  do;  you  were  an 
ass  when  you  went  and  stole  an  idea  out  of  my  book. 
Couldn't  you  have  known  that  I  read  my  books?  You 
were  an  ass  when  you  thought  that  you  were  smarter 
than  I  was  and  that  you  could  lure  me  into  being  a  thief ; 
you  were  a  fool  when  you  thought  it  would  adjust  the 
balance  if  there  were  two  thieves  in  the  world  instead  of 
one,  and  you  were  most  foolish  of  all  when  you  labored 


156  PARIA 

under  the  delusion  that  I  would  go  and  build  up  my  life's 
happiness  without  having  first  made  the  corner-stone  safe. 
You  go  and  write  anonymous  letters  to  my  wife  that  her 
husband  is  a  homicide? — she  knew  it  when  we  were  en- 
gaged! Now  take  yourself  off! 

Mr.  Y.    May  I  go? 

Mr.  X.    You  shall  go  now.    At  once.    Your  things  will 
follow  you.    Clear  outl 

{Curtain. 


SIMOON 


CHARACTERS 

BISKRA,  an  Arabian  girl. 

YOUSEF,  her  lover. 

GUIMARD,  a  lieutenant  in  the  Zouaves. 


SIMOON 


SCENE 

In  ^Algeria,  at  the  present  time. 

An  Arabian  marabout  (cemetery)  with  a  sarcophagus 
on  the  ground.  Praying  mats  here  and  there;  on  the 
right  a  charnel-house.  Door  at  the  back  with  porch  and 
curtains;  window  apertures  in  the  wall  at  the  back.  Small 
sand  hillocks  here  and  there  on  the  grcrund;  an  uprooted 
aloe;  a  palm-tree;  a  heap  of  esparto  grass. 


[BISKRA  enters  with  a  burnous  hood  drawn  down  over 
her  face,  and  a  guitar  on  her  back,  throws  herself  down 
on  a  mat  end  then  prays  with  arms  crossed-  over  her 
breast.  The  wind  blows  outside.} 

Biskra.    la  ilaha  all  allah. 

Yousef.  [In  hatft.]  The  Simoon  comes.  Where  is 
the  Frank? 

Biskra.    He  will  be  here  in  a  little  space. 

YouSef.    Why  dost  thou  not  slay  him  at  once? 

Biskra.  Nay,  because  he  is  going  to  do  that  himself. 
If  I  were  to  do  it  the  whites  would  kill  the  whole  of  our 
tribe,  for  they  know  that  I  was  the  guide  Ali — though 
they  do  not  know  that  I  am  the  maid  Biskra. 

Yousef.    He  is  to  do  it  himself?    How  is  that  to  be? 

Biskra.  Dost  not  know  the  Simoon?  Thou  knowest 
that  Simoon  shrivels  up  the  brains  of  the  whites  like 
dates,  and  makes  them  stricken  with  panic,  so  that  life  is 

159 


i6o  SIMOON 

hateful  to  them  and  they  fly  out  into  the  great  unknown. 

Yousef.  I  have  heard  such  things,  and  in  the  last  com- 
bat six  Franks  lifted  their  hands  against  themselves.  For 
snow  has  fallen  on  the  mountains  and  in  half-an-hour  all 
may  be  over.  Biskra,  canst  thou  hate? 

Biskra*  Thou  askest  if  I  can  hate  ?  My  hate  is  bound- 
less as  the  waste,  burning  as  the  sun,  and  stronger  than 
my  love.  Rvery  hour  of  joy  they  have  stolen  from  me 
since  they  killed  Ali  has  gathered  together  like  poison  in 
a  viper's  fangs,  and  what  Simoon  does  not  wreak  that 
will  I  wreak  myself. 

Yousef.  That  is  well  spoken,  Biskra,  and  thou  shalt  do 
as  thou  hast  said.  My  hate  has  withered  like  grass  in 
the  autumn  since  my  eyes  have  had  sight  of  thee.  Take 
strength  from  me  and  be  the  arrow  from  my  bow. 

Biskra.    Embrace  me,  Yousef ;  embrace  me. 

Y&usef.  Not  here  in  the  holy  presence;  not  now — 
later,  afterward — when  thou  shalt  have  earned  thy  re- 
ward. 

Biskra.    Noble  sheikh !    Noble  man ! 

You'sef.  Yes ;  the  maid  that  shall  bear  my  child  under 
her  heart  must  show  herself  worthy  of  the  honor. 

Biskra.  I — none  other — shall  bear  the  child  of  Yousef. 
I,  Biskra,  the  despised  one,  the  ill-favored  one,  but  the 
strong  one. 

Yousef.  So  be  it.  Now  I  will  go  down  and  sleep  by 
the  fountain.  Need  I  to  teach  thee  the  secret  craft  which 
thou  didst  learn  from  the  great  Marabout  Siddi  sheikh, 
and  which  thou  didst  practice  in  the  market-place  since 
thou  wast  a  child? 

Biskra,  That  need'st  thou  not  dot  I  know  all  the 
secret  craft  that  one  needs  to  frighten  the  life  out  of  a 
craven  Frank;  the  cowards  who  crawl  before  their  ene- 
mies and  send  leaden  pellets  before  them.  I  know  all — 
even  to  speaking  with  the  belly.  And  what  my  craft 
fails  to  wreak,  that  shall  the  sun  do,  for  the  sun  is  on 
the  side  of  Yousef  and  of  Biskra. 


SIMOON  161 

Yousef.  The  sun  is  the  Moslem's  friend,  but  today 
is  it  passing  great.  Thou  mayst  get  scorched,  maid.  Take 
first  a  drink  of  water,  for  I  can  see  thy  hands  are 
parched.  [He  lifts  up  a  mat  and  stoops  down  to  a  bowl 
of  water,  which  he  hands  to  BISKRA.} 

Biskra.  [Lifts  the  bowl  to  her  mouth.]  And  my  eyes 
begin  to  see  red — my  lungs  to  dry  up.  I  hear — I  hear — 
see  thou,  the  sands  run  already  through  the  roof,  and 
there  sings  the  string  of  the  guitar.  Simoon  is  here! 
But  the  Frank  is  not. 

Yousef.  Come  down  here,  Biskra,  and  let  the  Frank 
kill  himself. 

Biskra.  Hell  first  and  death  afterward.  Dbst  thou 
think  that  I  flinch?  [Pours  out  the  water  on  a  heap  of 
sand.]  I  shall  water  the  sand,  that  my  fevenge  may 
grow !  And  I  shall  parch  my  heart.  Grow,  hate !  Burn, 
sun!  Blow,  wind! 

Yousef.  Hail  to  thee,  mother  of  the  son  of  Yousef,  for 
thou  shalt  bear  Yousef's  son,  the  Avenger,  even  thou. 
[The  wind  increases;  the  curtain  in  front  of  the  door 
flaps,  a  red  light  illumines,  the  room,  faft  subsequently 
Passes  into  gold.] 

Biskra.    The  Frank  comes — and  Simoon  is  here!  Go! 

Yousef.  See  me  again  in  a  half-hour.  Here  is  your 
sand  water.  [Points  to  a  sandheap.]  Heaven  itself  will 
measure  out  the  time  of  the  infidel's  hell. 


SCENE  II 

BISKRA;  GUIMARD,  pale  and  staggering,  confused,  speaks 
in  a  faint  voice. 

Guimard.     Simoon  is  here.     What  way  do  you  think 
my  men  have  gone  ? 

Biskra.    I  guided  your  men  to  the  left,  toward  the  east. 
Guimard.    To  the  left  toward — the  east.    Let  me  see. 


162  SIMOON 

Now  I've  got  the  east  right,  and  the  west.  Put  me  in  a 
chair  and  give  me  some  water. 

Biskra.  [Leads  GUIMARD  to  the  sand  hillock,  and  puts 
him  on  the  ground,  with  his  head  on  the  sand  hillack.] 
Art  thou  easy  thus  ? 

Guimard.  [Looks  at  her.]  I'm  sitting  a  little  crooked. 
Put  something  under  my  head. 

Biskra.  [Piles  up  the  sand  hillock  under  his  head.] 
And  now  hast  thou  a  cushion  under  thy  head. 

Guimard.    Head  ?    That's  my  feet.    Isn't  that  my  feet  ? 

Biskra.    Yea,  surely. 

Guimard.  I  thought  so.  Give  me  a  stool,  now,  under 
my  head. 

Biskra.  [Drags  along  an  aloe-tree  and  puts  it  under 
GUIMARD' s  knees.]  There  is  a  stool  for  thee. 

Guimard.    And  water — water! 

Biskra.  [Takes  the  empty  bowl,  fills  it  with  sand  and 
hands  it  to  GUIMARD.]  Drink  it  while  it  is  cold. 

Guimard.  [Sips  from  the  bowl.]  It  is  cold,  but  none 
the  less  it  does  not  slake  my  thirst.  I  cannot  drink.  I 
abhor  water,  take  it  away. 

Biskra.    That's  the  dog  that  bit  thee. 

Guimard.  What  dog?  I  have  never  been  bitten  by 
any  dog. 

Biskra.  Simoon  has  shrivelled  up  thy  memory.  Be- 
ware of  the  phantoms  of  Simoon.  Thou  rememberest  the 
mad  wind-hound  that  bit  thee  on  thy  last  hunt  but  one 
in  Bab-el-Oued. 

Guimard.  I  was  hunting  in  Bab-el-Oued!  That  is 
right.  Was  it  a  bran-colored  one  ? 

Biskra.  A  bitch !  Yes,  see  now !  And  she  bit  thee  in 
the  calf.  Dost  thou  not  feel  the  wound  smarting? 

Guimard.  [Feels  himself  on  his  calf  and  pricks  him- 
self with  the  aloe.]  Yes,  I  feel  it.  Water!  Water! 

Biskra.     [Hands  him  the  bowl  of  sand.]   Drink,  drink ! 

Guimard.  No,  I  cannot!  Blessed  Virgin,  Mother  of 
God !  I  am  panic-stricken ! 


SIMOON  163 

Biskra.  Be  not  afraid !  I  will  cure  thee  and  drive  out 
the  devils  with  the  power  of  my  music.  Listen. 

Guimard.  [Shrieks.]  Ah!  Ah!  No  music!  I  cannot 
bear  it.  And  what  good  does  it  do  me  ? 

Biskra.  Music  tames  the  treacherous  spirit  of  the  ser- 
pent. Dost  thou  think  it  is  not  equal  to  a  mad  dog's  bite  ? 
[Singing  with  guitar.]  Biskra,  Biskra,  Biskra,  Biskra. 
Simoon !  Simoon ! 

Yousef.     [Underground.]     Simoon!    Simoon! 

Guimard.    What  is  that  you  were  singing  ?    Ah ! 

Biskra.  Have  I  been  singing?  Look  here,  thou,  now 
I  put  a  palm  leaf  in  my  mouth.  [Takes  a  palm  leaf  be- 
tween her  teeth.  Song  above.]  Biskra,  Biskra,  Biskra, 
Biskra,  Biskra. 

Yousef.    [Beneath  the  ground.]    Simoon,  Simoon. 

Guimard.    What  hellish  nightmare  is  this  ? 

Biskra.  I  am  singing  now.  [BISKRA  and  YOUSEF  to- 
gether.] Biskra,  Biskra,  Biskra,  Biskra,  Biskra,  Biskra. 
Simoon. 

Guimard,  [Raises  himself.]  What  devil  are  you  that 
sings  with  two  voices  ?  Are  you  a  man  or  a  woman  ?  Or 
both  in  one? 

Biskra.  I  am  Ali  the  guide.  Thou  dost  not  know  me 
again,  foe  thy  senses  are  wandering ;  but  if  thou  wouldst 
save  thyself  from  mad  thoughts,  and  mad  feelings,  believe 
what  I  say  and  do  what  I  bid. 

Guimard.  You  need  not  bid  me,  for  I  find  that  all  is  as 
you  say  it  is. 

Biskra.    Thou  seest  that  it  is  so,  thou  idolater? 

Guimard.     Idolater  ? 

Biskra.  Yes.  Take  up  the  idol  thou  wearest  on  thy 
breast.  [GUIMARD  takes  up  a  medallion.]  Trample  it 
under  thy  feet  and  call  on  God,  the  One,  the  Merciful, 
the  Pitiful. 

Guimard.    [Hesitating.]    St.  Edward,  my  patron  saint. 

Biskra.    Can  he  protect  thee?    Can  he? 

Guimard.    No,  he  cannot !    [Sitting  up.]    Yes,  he  can. 


164  SIMOON 

Biskra.  Let  us  see  then.  [Opens  the  doors,  the  cur- 
tains flap  and  the  grass  -whistles.] 

Guimard.  [Puts  his  han.d  before  his  mouth.]  Close 
the  door ! 

Biskra.    Down  with  the  idol ! 

Guimard.    No,  I  cannot. 

Biskra.  See  then.  Simoon  ruffles  not  a  hair  of  my 
head,  but  thee,  thou  infidel,  he  kills.  Down  with  the  idol. 

Guimard.  [Throws  the  medallion  on  the  floor.]  Water, 
I  am  dying. 

Biskra.    Pray  to  the  One,  the  Merciful,  the  Pitiful. 

Guimard.    What  shall  I  ask? 

Biskra.     Say  my  words. 

Guimard.     Speak. 

Biskra.  "God  is  One,  there  is  no  other  God  but  He  the 
Merciful,  the  Pitiful." 

Guimard.  "God  is  One,  there  is  no  other  God  but  He 
the  Merciful,  the  Pitiful." 

Biskra.  Lie  down  on  the  floor.  [GUIMARD  lies  down 
involuntarily.]  What  dost  thou  hear? 

Guimard.    I  hear  a  fountain  plash. 

Biskra.  See  thou,  God  is  One,  and  there  is  no  one 
else  but  He  the  Merciful,  the  Pitiful !  What  dost  thou 
see? 

Guimard.  I  hear  a  fountain  plash.  I  see  a  lamp  shine, 
by  a  window  with  green  blinds,  in  a  white  street. 

Biskra.    Who  sits  at  the  window? 

Guimard.    My  wife,  Elise ! 

Biskra.  Who  stands  behind  the  curtains  and  puts  his 
hands  around  her  neck? 

Guimard.    That's  my  son,  Georges. 

Biskra.     How  old  is  thy  son? 

Guimard.    Four  years  come  St.  Nicholas. 

Biskra.  And  can  he  already  stand  behind  curtains  arid 
hold  the  neck  of  another  man's  wife? 

Guimard.    He  cannot — but  it  is  he. 

Biskra.    Four  years  old  with  a  fair  mustache. 


SIMOONi  165 

Guimard.  A  fair  mustache,  you  say.  Ah !  that  is  Jules, 
my  friend. 

Biskra.  Who  stands  behind  the  curtains  and  lays  his 
hand  around  thy  wife's  neck? 

Guimard.    Ah !    Devil ! 

Biskra.    Dost  thou  see  thy  son? 

Gmmard.    No,  not  any  more. 

Biskra.  [Imitates  the  ringing  of  bells  with  her  guitar.] 
What  seest  thou,  now? 

Guimard.  I  hear  bells  being  rung,  and  I  smell  the 
odor  of  a  dead  body ;  it  smells  like  rancid  butter — ugh ! 

Biskra.  Dost  thou  not  hear  the  choir  boys  sing  for 
the  memory  of  a  dead  child  ? 

Guimard.  Just  wait,  I  cannot  hear  it.  [Gloomily.] 
But  dost  thou  wish  it,  be  it  so;  now  I  hear  it. 

Biskra.  Dost  thou  see  the  wreaths  on  the  coffin,  which 
they  carry  in  their  midst  ? 

Guimard.    Yes. 

Biskra.  There  is  a  violet  ribbon,  and  this  is  printed  in 
silver:  "Farewell,  my  beloved  Georges,  thy  father." 

Gmmard.  Yes,  that  is  it  then.  [Cries.]  My  Georges! 
Georges!  My  dear  child!  Elise,  my  wife,  comfort  me. 
Help  me!  [Gropes  arcruvtd  him.}  Where  are  you,  dear? 
Elise  ?  Have  you  gone  away  from  me  ?  Answer !  Call 
out  the  name  of  thy  loved  one.  [A  VOICE  from  the  roof : 

Jules!     Jules!]     Jules?     My  name  is What  is  my 

name!  My  name  is  Charles!  And  she  called  Jules! 
Elise,  dear  wife,  answer  me,  since  your  spirit  is  here. 
I  know  it,  and  you  promised  me  never  to  love  anyone 
else.  [VOICES  laugh.]  Who  is  laughing? 

Biskra.    Elise,  your  wife. 

Guimard.  Kill  me.  I  will  not  live  any  more.  Life  is 
as  loathsome  to  me  as  sauerkraut  in-  St.  Doux.  Do  you 
know  what  St.  Doux  is,  you?  Lard!  [Spits  in  front 
of  himself .]  I  have  no  more  saliva  left.  Water!  Water! 
— otherwise  I'll  bite  you.  [Full  storm  outside.] 

Biskra.    [Puts  her  finger  to  her  lips  and  coughs.]  Now, 


166  SIMOON 

die,  Frank!     Write  thy  last    will  while   there  is    time. 
Where  is  thy  note-book? 

Guimard.  [Takes  up  a  note-book  and  a  pen.]  What 
shall  I  write? 

Biskra.  A  man  thinks  of  his  wife  when  he  has  got  to 
die — and  of  his  child. 

Guimard.  [Writes.]  "Elise — Icursethee!  Simoon — 
I  die." 

Biskra.  And  sign  it  thus,  otherwise  the  will  is  worth 
nothing. 

Guimard.    How  shall  I  sign  it? 

Biskra.    Write:   la  ilaha  all  allah. 

Guimard.  [Writes.]  That  is  written!  May  I  die 
now? 

Biskra.  Now  you  may  die  like  a  cowardly  soldier  who 
has  deserted  his  comrades,  and  thou  art  like  to  have  a 
pretty  funeral,  with  jackals  to  sing  on  thy  corpse.  [Doing, 
an,  "attack"  on  her  guitar.]  Dost  thou  hear  the  drums 
going — to  the  attack — the  infidels  who  have  sun  and  Si- 
moon with  them  advance — from  an  ambush.  [Beats  tfn 
her  guitar.]  Shots  are  fired  along  the  whole  line,  the 
Franks  are  unable  to  load,  the  Arabs  are  spread  out  and 
shoot,  the  Franks  fly. 

Guimard.    [Raises  himself.]    The  Franks  do  not  fly. 

Biskra.  [Blows  the  "retreat"  on  a  flute  she  has  taken 
up.]  The  Franks  fly  when  the  retreat  is  blown. 

Guimard.  They're  retreating,  they're  retreating,  and  I 
am  here.  [Pulls  off  his  epaulettes.]  I  am  dead.  [Falls 
on  the  floor.] 

Biskra.  Yes,  thou  art  dead.  Thou  knowest  not  that 
thou  hast  been  dead  for  a  long  time.  [Goes  to  the  char- 
nel-house, takes  up  a  skull.] 

Guimard.    Have  I  been  dead?    [Feels  his  face.] 

Biskra.  A  long  time !  A  long  time !  Look  at  thyself 
in  the  mirror!  [Shows  the  skull.] 

Guimard.    Ah !    Am  I  that  ? 

Biskra.    Look  at  your  protruding  cheeks.     Seest  thou 


SIMOON  167 

not  how  the  vultures  have  eaten  thine  eyes?  Dost  thou 
not  feel  again  the  hole  by  your  right  grinder  which  you 
had  taken  out?  Dost  thou  not  see  the  hole  in  the  chin 
where  that  pretty  little  imperial  sprouted  which  thy  Elise 
fancied  so  to  caress  ?  Dost  thou  not  see  the  ears  which 
thy  little  Georges  was  wont  to  kiss  every  morning  over 
the  breakfast-table  ?  Dost  thou  see  how  the  axe  has  taken 
away  the  hair  at  the  neck,  when  the  executioner  was  be- 
heading the  deserter? 

[GUIMARD,  who  has  been  sitting  listening  with  horror, 
falls  down  dead.] 

Biskra.  [Who  has  been  on  her  knees,  gets  up  after  she 
has  examined  his  pulse-.  Sings.}  Simoon!  Simoon! 
[She  opens  the  doors,  the  draperies  flap,  she  puts  her 
finger  on  her  mouth,  and  falls  on  her  back.}  Yousef ! 


SCENE  III 

Previous  characters.  YOUSEF  coming  up  from  the  cellar. 

Yousef.  [Examines  GUIMARD,  lo-aks  for  BISKRA.] 
Biskra !  [He  sees  BISKRA,  lifts  her  up  in  his  arms.]  Dost 
thou  live? 

Biskra.    Is  the  Frank  dead? 

Yousef.    If  he  is  not,  he  shall  be.    Simoon !    Simoon ! 

Biskra.    Then  I  live.    But  give  me  water. 

Yousef.  [Props  her  u$  against  the  wicket.]  Here. 
Now  Yousef  is  thine. 

Biskra.  And  Biskra  shall  be  the  mother  of  thy  son. 
Yousef,  great  Yousef ! 

Yousef.    Strong  Biskra!    Stronger  than  the  Simoon. 

[Curtain. 


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